Visit to a Weird Island
by callensensei
Summary: Three unwary travellers arrive on Gilligan's Island just as the Professor, Gilligan and Mary Ann vanish. How are these travellers going to fool the remaining castaways? And how will they get back home to Los Angeles?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The Island, the seven castaways, the show's name: all Sherwood Schwartz's, not mine. And you may see some incidents that were mentioned in books by three of the show's stars, but as the Professor in the Beanstalk dream said, "Don't believe everything you hear, girlie!"

**Author's Ramblings: **You will notice that there are some characters here with unfamiliar last names. That is because _all _of the characters in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to any individuals, living or dead, is pure coincidence. Heck, I wish I could have met them!

**More Ramblings**: Many years ago, Jean Lorrah wrote a fanfic for classic Star Trek called "Visit to a Weird Planet." Later, Ruth Berman wrote the other side of the story in "Visit to a Weird Planet Revisited." This story carries on that delightful tradition.

Dedicated to Tabitha12, who challenged me to write this and faithfully beta-read the whole thing twice (bless you!) and the late, great Bob Denver, who I am sure is on a Blessed Island somewhere.

And now I can hear Mr. Howell saying, "I can't stand late curtains or talky projectionists! Just get on with it!"

**Visit to a Weird Island **

The red-shirted figure broke the surface of the lagoon. "_Skippererer!_" he shouted, thrashing about, but was drowned out by the engine of a jet plane roaring overhead.

"Blast!" Director Leslie Godwins' clipped English accent had grown ever stronger with impatience. He shaded his eyes at the sky. "That's the fifth take ruined today! Is the whole ruddy world traveling to Los Angeles?"

Bob Colorado splashed his way out of the water, shivering. Even in southern California, the November air had a nip to it. "What happened?" he asked.

"Airplane. Sorry, Bobby." Russell Tomson, attired in his customary pale blue shirt and khaki pants, looked glad to be dry onshore. "Boy, there are times when I sure am glad you're the star, not me!"

Bob groaned. "Sheesh! Tell me about it!"

"Oh, can't we take a break while he takes a hot shower or something?" Dawn Bells pleaded with the director. "We can see our breath, it's so cold! Bob's likely to catch pneumonia at this rate!"

"Sorry, love," Godwins called from where he was huddled with the lighting man. "Not like working on a soundstage, you know. We'll lose the daylight soon and we've got to get this scene in the can today. Now – let's just go over the dialogue once more, shall we? Don't want poor Bob going in a seventh time because someone flubs a line, do we?"

Russell raised a suitably offended eyebrow. "Mr. Godwins, we never flub."

"Some of us talk too fast," said Dawn, smiling.

"And some of us improvise like crazy. Good thing Jim's with the others doing a scene at the huts right now or we'd never get finished!" said Bob.

"And some of us do such brilliant pratfalls that the whole crew starts laughing and ruins the take!" said Russell. "Remember when you dared Alan to bend over and pick you up and his pants ripped right into the camera? I could hear the crew howling from my dressing room!"

Bob chuckled. "And Alan was laughing hardest of all. Good thing you weren't there, Dawn. Apparently he wasn't wearing his shorts with the little hearts them on that day."

The director harrumphed loudly. "Lovely dialogue, my dears, but it's not in the script. May we begin from, 'I've found it, Professor!'? Bob, if you please?" He turned to the crew. "This isn't a take, lads. But Sam, check that light. I've a notion there's something wrong with it."

Bob turned to his fellow cast members and held up a necklace with a gleaming golden pendant. His clever face took on Gilligan's animated innocence. "I've found it, Professor! I've found it!"

Dawn held up a similar pendant that was about half the size of Bob's, and clutched his arm. "Oh, that's got to be it, Gilligan! You did it!"

Russell held up a third pendant that was the same size as Dawn's. "There's no doubt about it, Gilligan! You've found the amulet of the Chichen Itza!"

"The amulet of chicken pizza?" said Bob. "Gee, Professor, I prefer mine with pepperoni."

"No, no, Gilligan. Chichen Itza was the capital city of the ancient Mayans of Mexico. One of the most advanced races the world has ever known!"

Dawn frowned at her amulet "But Professor, if the Mayans were from Mexico, what's this doing here in the South Pacific?"

"Maybe they rode here on a surf board like Duke Williams," said Bob-as-Gilligan, looking forward to how Russell would deal with the latest offering of techno-babble the writers had handed him. At least Gilligan never had those kinds of lines.

Russell sounded his most scholarly. "Highly unlikely, Gilligan. In fact, I doubt that they even came here by boat. The Mayans were extraordinarily advanced mathematicians and physicists. They had an accurate calendar long before the Europeans and even discovered the number zero!"

"Gee, that's not so difficult, Professor. I discovered zero all the time on my tests in school!"

"Please, Gilligan," said Dawn, "the Professor's trying to explain something."

Russell continued. "The Mayans understood such concepts as the space-time continuum and parallel dimensions. When the population of a whole Mayan village vanished in the tenth century it's believed that they discovered an inter-dimensional gateway and simply walked into another plane!"

"Gilligan" snorted. "Well, if we had a gate and a plane we could just walk into, we could get out of here, too!"

Russell was used to crazy scripts by now. His voice carried total conviction. "We may not need a plane, Gilligan. If we could use these to tap into an inter-dimensional gateway, we might be able to simply walk out of here and into another place – possibly even the mainland!"

"What?" Bob and Dawn chorused.

"Yes - I'm convinced that these amulets hold the secret to getting us off this island!" Russell straightened. "And _cut_! End of teaser. Go to commercial." He smiled at Godwins, who had looked up, slightly annoyed. "I always wanted to say cut," he admitted sheepishly.

Godwins sighed. "I'd like to say it too, my dears. Well, at least the dialogue's spot on. All right: take your places, everyone. Sorry, Bob. I've afraid you're back in the drink, old boy.

Bob sighed heavily, but trooper that he was, made no argument. "Oh well. At least I'm already wet."

As he turned to go, Russell murmured, "Bobby…David Harmon wrote this script?"

"Yeah. Said he got the idea from a trip he took to Mexico."

Russell looked at his amulet. "Parallel dimensions and space-time continuums! Sounds like David should be writing for that new science fiction show…_Star Track_ or whatever it's called."

Bob raised his eyebrows. "Maybe so. He told me he bought these amulets off some little old Indian in a village in the Yucatan. We better not lose them." He turned to Godwins. "I say, Leslie, old boy!" he called, in perfect mimicry of Godwins' accent. "Shall we put these thingies on? So we don't lose them, what? I shouldn't want mine at the bottom of the lagoon, don't you know."

Godwins sighed. "Whatever you like, Bob dear. Could we just get the take, please?"

The three actors looped the amulets around their necks. Bob turned and obediently trudged off into the water as Godwins addressed his awaiting cast and crew. "All right, everyone. Lights! Camera! Action!"

Bob took a deep breath, shivered again, and dove into the water.

_Flash!_ There was a burst of light as one of the big spotlights shorted out.

_Clap!_ The earth suddenly rocked back and forth, flimsy as a house made of cards, and Dawn screamed and clutched at Russell as they both struggled to keep their footing. The sky blazed a blinding white.

Moments later, the earth stood still again and the sky deepened to a soft, brilliant blue. Russell and Dawn stood gasping, still hanging onto one another. At that moment Bob splashed to the surface of the lagoon once again and came stumbling out. "Professor, I found it! I found it!"

He came to an abrupt halt as he stared at their strange embrace. Trying to save the take, he held up the amulet and dangled it in front of Russell. "Uh…Professor – is this it?"

"Bob, are you okay?" gasped Dawn, standing up straight.

Bob slumped. "I was 'til you ruined the take! What gives, Dawn?"

"The light blew, and then there was an earthquake!" she cried.

"And then a sheet of lightning!" said Russell.

Bob rolled his eyes. "Aw, come on, guys. This isn't funny. Les, should I -?" He stopped suddenly, realizing something was missing. No one had yelled "Cut."

He looked beyond his fellow cast members to the edge of the set's jungle and bit back a curse. "Aw, come on! A practical joke can go too far! Were you guys in on this?"

"In on what?" said Russell, and he and Dawn turned to look behind them. They blinked in surprise. There was no crew. All the huge lights, the boom mike, the cameras and every single crew member, including the director, had vanished. Even Goodwin's folding chair was gone.

"They wouldn't dare do this to Alan," Bob fumed. "Wait 'til I tell him!"

"Hang on, Bobby," said Dawn, putting her hand on his arm. "There was no joke, honest. There really was a quake! Didn't you hear me scream?"

"I almost screamed when the lightning hit and you were still in the water," said Russell. "I thought we'd have a French-fried star!"

At last Bob could see that they were serious. "Sorry, guys. You know we've had trouble with wise-guy directors before. But how'd they all disappear so fast? I wasn't underwater that long!"

"Yeah! Gee, I hope no one's hurt!" said Dawn. The three crept up to the edge of the fake jungle, fearing to see bodies lying about.

For a few moments they peered about in the foliage, pushing ferns and branches aside, but they could find no one and nothing. Not a cord or cable, or even the mark of a wheel.

Bob scratched his head. "This is freaky."

Russell fingered one of the ferns. "Here's something freakier. I think Sherwood's managed to squeeze some more money out of the top brass. These plants are real! They've even got real bugs on them!"

"And they're sure spreading the sand mighty thick!" said Dawn, reaching down to pull off her shoe. "You'd never know there was black-top under all this!" She suddenly straightened, listening. "Hey – I can hear birds! Why would they be playing the bird soundtrack out here? Don't they usually add it in the editing room?"

"At least we don't hear a bunch of people laughing," said Bob. Then he suddenly straightened too. "Hey – it sure did get warm all of a sudden. I'm not cold anymore!" He unbuttoned the collar of his rugby shirt. "And I can't see my breath. Look!" He breathed out, his breath invisible.

Dawn and Russell tried the same experiment. "Wow. Weird weather," said Russell, and shading his eyes, looked at the sky. "Hey, you two! Look!"

All three looked up where he was staring and gasped. The pale blue, smoggy L.A. sky had deepened to a rich, melting azure with huge, ice cream clouds. No sky could change that fast. The three actors stared at each other, their eyes growing wide with apprehension. "Guys…what happened to the sky? What on earth's going on?" whispered Dawn.

Russell looked around, suddenly seeming as in charge as the Professor. "I don't know. Come on. We'd better find the crew."

The thought of some kind of action roused them from their frightened trance and they struck off swiftly, propelled by nervous energy. They headed deep into the jungle set.

It was only a few moments before Bob spoke again, in hushed tones that bordered on fear. "Guys…Sherwood doesn't have _this _kind of budget."

They were walking like astonished children through a green cathedral of stately, curving coconut palms, blade straight palmettos and tall, slender bamboo whose hollow stems made a soft _toc toc_ as the breeze blew them in a swaying dance. Thick bushes of orange and white hibiscus threw off waves of dizzyingly sweet scent. The sun filtered down in golden shafts, illuminating a shimmering carpet of ferns on the jungle floor. Brightly coloured birds, like living jewels, flitted from branch to branch, and far off in the canopy they could hear the screech of monkeys. Bob, Dawn and Russell looked at each other, almost holding hands for fear and wonder.

This was no studio back-lot. If the jungle itself were not proof enough, the land was steadily rising, until at last they emerged into a clearing on the top of a hill. At the smell, sound and sight that hit them, all three gasped as if struck.

"Mary Ann, you're not in Kansas anymore," murmured Russell.

The smell was the salt ocean, the sound the crash of waves. Spread out before them was the magnificent curve of a tropical bay, ringed with tawny golden sand. Pure aquamarine water rippled in the sunlight, deepening to cobalt where the sky met the sea.

The mantle of palms that fringed the shore wafted gently in the warm salt breeze.

The actors stared at each other, clutching one another's arms as if to be sure they were really there. "Fellas, am I dreaming?" whispered Dawn.

"If you are, I'm having the same dream," said Russell, his voice tinged with awe. "I feel like I'm back on one of my _Twilight Zone_ episodes!"

Bob stepped forward to see better. He was still wet from the lagoon, but drying quickly in the hot sun. Shading his eyes he stared intently at the shoreline. "Hey…I know this place! I've been here before!" He looked back at the two of them, his voice quivering with amazement. "This is Moloa'a Bay! This was where we shot the pilot, before you two and Tina were cast."

Dawn stared at him, then back at the scene below. "What?! Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure." Bob gazed out over the water, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and serious. "I fell in love with this place the moment I first saw it. I felt like I'd come home."

"But…Bobby, didn't you shoot the pilot in Hawaii?"

"Yeah, Dawn. Near Hanalei, on Kauai." He looked across to where a towering green escarpment with ridges that looked as though they had been carved out by a giant knife sloped down to the water. "Look, I'm not kidding. See over there? That's the Waialeale Ridge!"

Dawn and Russell looked at the mountain range, unable to believe their eyes. "We - we're in Hawaii? How in the world could we be in Hawaii?" stammered Russell.

Bob was still staring at the ridge when suddenly he frowned. "Wait a minute. I...I don't think we are," he said quietly.

"But you said—"

"I know what I said. But I just remembered something. The Waialeale Ridge isn't right on Moloa'a Bay. It's way south-west of here. That thing's in the wrong place!"

Dawn shook her head. "First we're in the wrong place – then the mountain is! Bobby, what gives?"

He turned to them. "And another thing: if this really is Moloa'a, there should be a road right over there. That's how we got the crew and gear down to the location. And there should be a building, right up there. But there isn't. This bay looks the same as Moloa'a, but things are all mixed up. It's almost as if…" He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening. "Oh, good God. No way. No, that's too wild, even for this show!"

"What do you mean, Bob?"

Bob looked around, his white hat blazing in the sun atop his shock of dark hair. "I _do_ know where we are!"

"_Where?_"

Bob knelt and scooped up a handful of golden sand, letting it trickle slowly through his fingers as he watched in wonder. At last he stood up and looked at his friends. "_Here... on Gilligan's Island!_"


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn and Russell's jaws nearly dropped to the sand. The threesome stared all around them as the sun bronzed their faces and the fresh sea breezes played in their hair. No one moved for a few moments.

Then all at once Bob gave a whoop of joy and sprinted headlong down the slope towards the glittering sea. Fearing he had gone mad, Dawn and Russell spared each other one quick glance of dismay before they raced after him.

Behind them, at the edge of the trees, a shadowy figure watched intently. Accustomed to camouflage, he had tracked the three actors invisibly and effortlessly through the jungle. Now he waited to see what they would do.

Dawn and Russell came panting up to where Bob stood on the beach, gazing with sparkling eyes at the sea, the mountains and the sky.

"Bobby," Dawn gasped, "I'm beginning to think you did get hit by lightning!"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Oh, come on, Bob! Gilligan's Island! Being in Hawaii was weird enough! But Gilligan's Island doesn't even exist!"

"This island thinks it does," laughed Bob in childlike delight.

"You're beginning to _sound_ like Gilligan," snorted Russell.

"Okay, Russ. Sound like the Professor. _You_ tell us what's going on and how we got here. After all, you're the guy with the sci-fi experience."

"You tell us. You're the teacher."

"I was a math and history teacher, not a physics teacher. You're the pilot."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Oh! You two! Be serious!" Dawn stamped her foot with impatience. "Boy, at least I know I'm not hallucinating. I couldn't dream up the two of you!"

Bob smiled gently, hearing the fear behind her anger. "Well, as long as we're on the subject of everybody's past, don't you have Mexican blood - and Indian too? Haven't you ever heard stories about ancient powers?"

"Well…sure. But they're just stories. At least I always thought so!" Dawn's eyes widened in disbelief and she pulled out her amulet. "Bobby, what _did_ David Harmon say about these things?"

"Just what he put in the script. That they were made by the ancient Mayans and they acted like gateways to other dimensions. Don't you see? It's the only answer. David didn't just wander into any tourist trap. That old Indian was the real thing! And so are these! They must have been what brought us here!"

"So that would explain why only we traveled, not the crew! We were the only ones wearing these!"

Russell tried to bring them both back down to earth. "But even if that's true, and it's a big if, how could these things bring us to a place that doesn't exist?"

"Well…" Bob thought back to what the writer had told him. "David said the Mayans believed in parallel dimensions. Maybe this is one of them. Maybe in this dimension, the Island does exist!"

"Then so do the castaways," murmured Dawn slowly. "There's a real Mary Ann here."

"And a real Professor," said Russell.

"And a real Gilligan! This is incredible! Gee, I'd love to meet him." Bob's blue eyes flashed with excitement. "What do you say? Want to try to find their camp?"

"Oh, let's!" cried Dawn, as thrilled as he was.

"Sure!" echoed Russell. "Except—" and he looked back at the green depths of the jungle, "which way do we go? Where _is_ the castaways' camp?"

Dawn looked around a bit nervously. "Uh…Studio Two?"

"Nice try, honey. No soundstage here. It's all on location." Russell's brow furrowed and he brought his hand to his mouth as he tried to remember. "But if this island follows the logic of the show—"

"Such as it is," chuckled Bob.

"—then maybe the show can give us a clue to where the camp is. We know it wasn't near the mountains, for instance. The mountains were painted on the cyclorama in the background. They always seemed pretty far away from camp."

"And we know it wasn't near the beach," said Dawn. "It was inland. At least by the second season it was."

Bob's eyes suddenly brightened. "Hey – the lagoon!"

"What about it?" asked Russell.

"Alan and I—I mean the Skipper and Gilligan were always down there for something or other…fishing or finding one of those goofy visitors who never helped us get off the island. We were down there so often that it's got to be close to camp. There's probably even a trail. Gilligan even drove the bamboo car down to the lagoon, so the trail must be pretty wide!"

"Hey! You're right!" Dawn cried. "All we have to do is backtrack to the lagoon!"

This seemed like a wonderful idea, when a thought suddenly struck them all at the same time. "Wait a minute," said Bob. "Is anybody sure of the way? I wasn't paying attention when we first came."

Dawn winced. "Neither was I. Couldn't see the forest for the trees, I guess."

"The Professor's the scoutmaster, not me. I can't blaze a trail." Russell looked back out to sea where the wind was sending the silver-blue breakers crashing merrily on shore. "Hey, wait a minute…what's the matter with us? We're on an island, remember? If we follow the shoreline far enough, we've got to reach the lagoon. It stands to reason."

Bob smiled and shook his head. "If the island's anything like the show, that's not a very good guarantee."

Dawn, however, was all for it. Eagerly she grasped both of their hands and tugged them towards the beach. "Come on, boys. It's as good a plan as any! Let's go!"

"Dibs on the bamboo car!" shouted Bob.

The threesome thudded down the sandy slope and took off at a run down the edge of the surf, their footprints soon bubbling and flooded by the sparkling water.

On the hill, a tall figure emerged the edge of the jungle, his half-naked body covered in tattoos. He was a native scout, and the skulls that hung at his waist proclaimed the reason for his visit. Eyeing the newcomers as they raced down the shore, he fingered the machete by his side and smiled.

A flaming orange sunset spread out over the tropical sky by the time the weary trio finally stumbled on the lagoon. After pausing to scoop a much-needed drink with their bare hands from the little waterfall, they sat with outstretched feet on the fallen tree trunk by the shore. "I think I've worn the soles out of my sneakers," groaned Bob.

"I'm sure I had lines that said this was a _tiny _island," Russell grumbled. "It's about as tiny as Australia."

Bob shrugged. "I guess once they wrote in the mountains and the volcano, it had to get bigger. Boy, it sure does look like Kauai. That makes sense, though. All the establishing footage they used in the show was shot there, and the scenes from the pilot that got spliced into the Christmas episode."

"And a little bit of California, too. Didn't that stretch back there look like Zuma beach, where they reshot the pilot scenes with Russ and Tina and me?"

"You're right, Dawn. And I think I saw parts of Tahiti too."

"Tahiti?" Russell was incredulous. "Did I miss an episode? When did we film there?"

"We didn't. It's from the stock footage they took from _Mutiny on the Bounty_ in the episode where the native tribe attacked us. It's a real mixed bag, this island. Boy…" Bob grinned expectantly. "Wait 'til we tell Sherwood about this!"

Dawn had been fingering her golden amulet, watching the play of the mellow evening sun across its surface. Suddenly she gasped. "Guys, wait a minute!"

The men looked up at her worried tone. "What's the matter?" asked Russell.

"We don't know that we _can _tell Sherwood. We don't know that we can tell anybody! How do we get back - to our world, I mean?"

That made them all trade worried glances. Then they looked all around at the water, the wide sky and the darkening jungle. Straightening a little, Bob tried to sound calm. "Presumably the way we got here. By using the amulets!"

"How exactly did we use them? What do we do?" She looked at them both helplessly. "Shouldn't we test them or something?"

By now all three were scrambling to their feet. They turned their amulets over and over, scrutinizing them as though searching for some secret inscription. There was none.

"What if we tried to recreate the scene?" Dawn insisted.

"It won't be exactly the same," Bob pointed out. "The crew's not here - and neither is their equipment."

"We could still try. At least we might learn something! Russ, you and I were standing about here." She took her costar's arm and pulled him off to the side in her determination.

Russell feigned a look of innocence. "Now where were you, Bobby? Wait a moment…it's coming to me…"

"It's coming to you all right, Russ. Just you wait." Bob sighed. "Okay, Dawn honey. I'll do it for you. At least this lagoon should be warm." He turned and waded into the rippling dark water, light foam frothing in his wake. "Hey! It is warm! Feels nice!" He waded deeper in and finally dove and vanished.

Dawn and Russell waited breathlessly on shore, clutching their amulets, but there was no flash of light, no earthquake. After a few moments there was a whoosh of water and Bob shot up, spewing water like a whale's blowhole. "Are we there yet?" he shouted.

"Oh, no luck, Bobby!" Dawn cried. "Nothing happened at all! We're not doing it right some how!"

"Take it easy," Russell urged as their soggy friend squelched his way back to their sides. "Whoever heard about a rescue from Gilligan's Island going right the first time? There's got to be a way; it's just a matter of finding it. Besides, once we get to camp we can talk to the Professor. The man's supposed to have six degrees, after all. If anyone can think of a solution, he can."

"Sure." Bob smiled at the thought of the upcoming meeting. "Let's get going. I can't wait to see their reactions when we turn up at camp!"

They turned and headed up the wide trail through the jungle. Now the light was fading fast and it became harder and harder to see their way.

The native scout, following behind them, was used to traveling by night. He crept along with catlike tread, always keeping to the shadows.

Bob suddenly gasped and stopped short. "Hey – I just thought of something not too nice."

"No bathrooms?" Russell quipped.

"Worse. The headhunters. If the island is real and the castaways are real, then there are other islands nearby, and the headhunters on them are real too." He looked nervously at his friends. "What if they actually come here?"

Russell raised a sardonic eyebrow. "You shouldn't have to worry, Bob. You never get caught by them. You run too fast."

"_Gilligan_ runs too fast. I'm ten years older than he is, remember? I don't think I'm outrunning anybody quite that easily!"

Dawn shivered and looked at the darkening sky. "All the more reason we should hurry up and find camp. At least there's safety in numbers!"

"You're right. Let's pick it up." Being soaked hardly hampered him as Bob lengthened his stride until the other two had to hurry to keep up.

"There's more than one danger on this island, now that I think about it. There was quicksand, for example," said Dawn. "Watch your step."

"There's some pretty strange animals for a tropical island," said Bob.

"They were always friendly with you, Bobby."

Bob rolled his eyes. "There you go again, Russ. They're friendly with _Gilligan_. He has some kind of way with them, but I don't. Remember that lion? It acted like a big cuddly dog for Gilligan but it nearly ate me. Just don't expect me to go playing Tarzan any time, that's all."

"Oh! Then I wouldn't go running back into the lagoon any time soon. I just remembered - there are crocodiles on the island. Tina and I did a scene with one."

Bob gulped as though he'd swallowed a tennis ball. "Now you tell me! Thanks a lot, Russ!"

"Well…" his costar sounded genuinely apologetic. "Sorry. I didn't think of it back there. The one with Tina and me was just a wooden prop with a hinge on the jaw."

"A fake, eh? How come you got a fake crocodile and I got a real lion? Who's your agent? I want him!"

Dawn shuddered. "There was that crazy episode with the giant spider. Somebody really went out on a limb with that one!"

Bob shuddered too. "Geez…Why'd you have to bring that up, Dawn?"

"Sorry."

"I sure hope Walter the pigeon killed that thing! I hope it never had any babies!"

They crowded close together as the shadows deepened, trying to pick their way down the swiftly darkening trail. At last Dawn cried, "I see light up ahead! It's the camp! We've found it!"

With a gasp of relief, her friends raced along with her towards the blossoms of orange flame that quivered in the distance.


	3. Chapter 3

And once again it was abundantly clear that they were not on a film set. The campsite was much larger than the studio, with real, four-sided huts instead of simple facades. Instead of a ceiling with bright lights and a tangle of cables above, the vast tropical sky glowed crimson, flanked with the silhouettes of the stately, waving palms. There were no cameras, no microphones, no cyclorama. But there was the familiar bamboo table with flaring tiki torches nearby for light, and bending over the table, arranging plates and cutlery, were two elegant, very familiar figures.

"No, no, Thurston, the shrimp fork goes on the outside."

"Good heavens, Lovey, how can you tell? All of these crude bamboo utensils look the same! And besides, this is manual labour! Hardly fitting for one Howell, let alone two."

"Oh, Thurston Howell, I'm surprised at you. We have a duty to the others to maintain the social standard! Now just look closely, dear. The shrimp forks are slightly smaller."

Dawn gasped. The island was one thing, but the people themselves were another. She realized she was not looking at her old friends Natalie and Jim, and it took her several tries just to frame the words. "_Mr. and Mrs. Howell!_"

The millionaire and his wife – the real thing - looked up as one. Mrs. Howell broke into a sunny smile. "Oh, there you all are! You see, Thurston, I was right to say we should set seven places instead of four."

"If I were the captain, I'd send them all to bed without supper!" Thurston Howell the Third stood with hands on hips, the picture of affronted privilege. "What do you mean, the three of you! We've had to delay the cocktail hour by an abominable degree!"

"Not to mention worrying the dear captain into a frightful state. He thought something dreadful must have happened to you!"

"And if Ginger's fish stew were all we had to look forward to for dinner, something dreadful might have happened to all of us!" Mr. Howell fixed Russell with a gimlet eye. "I can understand such irresponsibility on the part of the young people, Professor, but you! I've heard that you fellows can be absent minded, but really!"

The three actors finally had a chance to get a word in. Russell held out his hands in supplication. "Uh…M-Mr. Howell, you've got it all wrong. You see, I'm not really-"

He was cut off by a voice like a thundering canon. "Gilligan, little buddy! Mary Ann! Professor! _Where in the seven seas have you been?"_

They all turned as a tall, massive figure in a captain's hat stalked out of the jungle and stood with arms flexed as if he debating whether to grab the threesome in a hug or crush them. Bob's eyes lit as though he were seeing Santa Claus. Rushing over, he gave the big man a mock-punch in the arm. "I don't believe it! How ya doing, Skipper!"

The Skipper pushed him away. "Don't you 'how ya doing Skipper' me, you mutineer!"

Bob blinked. "Mutineer?"

"That's right! Though I guess it's not all your fault, Gilligan, since you weren't alone." The Skipper was panting heavily as though he'd just finished a long trek, and the long rope, canteen and machete he carried were obviously not fashion accessories. "I've been looking all over for the three of you! Professor, what's the big idea? You told us you and Gilligan and Mary Ann were going down to the lagoon at the crack of dawn to test some theory of yours about ancient amulets, and that you'd be back in time for lunch. Then you disappear 'til now! I thought the headhunters must have gotten you!"

Dawn shivered and looked at her two friends, then back at the Skipper. "Headhunters?"

"Of course, Mary Ann. You remember when the Professor found that smouldering fire-pit the other day? None of us made it, and that native arrowhead nearby clinched it. What were you thinking, traipsing all over and not telling us where you were going, especially when some savage might have been lurking right behind you!?"

The three actors jumped and looked around nervously. Again Russell tried to explain. "Look, Skipper, Mr. and Mrs. Howell, it's not what you think. This is all just a big misunderstanding. If you'd just let us use your phone—"

"Phone?" said Mr. Howell. "Good heavens, Professor, didn't the three of you have enough sense to stay in the shade? You sound as though you've got a touch of the sun. More than a touch!"

Bob broke in quickly as he saw the three castaways staring at Russell. "That's it, Skipper," he said in a stage whisper, pointing to Russell behind his hand. "I think that's why he led us so far out of our way."

The Skipper stared at him, and took a cautious look at Russell. "He what? Why-?" Turning back, he suddenly noticed the state of Bob's clothes. "Gilligan, you're soaking wet! What happened to you?"

"Uh…" Another brainstorm. "We stopped at the lagoon on the way back! I wanted to check my lobster traps. I thought the least I could do was see if I'd caught us anything for dinner."

"Oh. Well, you did. I checked the traps this morning and brought your catch back to camp. Ginger didn't know how to cook them, though. She was a bit afraid to touch them, actually—ep!"

He clammed up just as the tall, stunning actress appeared in the flesh (_and what flesh! _thought the two male actors), an apron tied incongruously over her peach-coloured, form-fitting evening gown. "Does anybody mind if the fish stew is a bit well done—Mary Ann! Thank goodness!" Ginger wiped her brow with a hand that was holding a wooden spoon. "I wasn't expecting any applause for this performance! Dinner theatre I can manage – just not dinner."

Mr. Howell smiled. "Rescued," he murmured, just low enough for Ginger not to hear.

"But where have you three been all this time?" Ginger cried.

"We're not sure, Ginger," said the Skipper. "But I think the Professor had better lie down. I don't think he's sailing with all hands!"

"Oh, he's probably just faint from hunger, Skipper," said Bob hurriedly, effortlessly maintaining Gilligan's cheerful innocence. "We haven't eaten all day. Why don't he and I help Mary Ann get supper ready? He's bound to feel better after dinner."

"I don't know…are you sure?" The Skipper was still looking hard at Russell.

"Positive! Don't worry, Skipper! We'll watch him!"

"Well…okay. The lobsters are in a bucket of water by the cooking area."

"Great! Come on, Professor, Mary Ann." Bob grabbed his two friends and hustled them in the direction Ginger had come from. Once they were beyond the huts, they saw the crackling fire and the wrought-iron kettle hanging from the tripod above it. A bamboo sideboard with bowls of condiments stood nearby.

"There's the lobsters," said Bob, pointing to a bucket on the ground filled with wriggling arthropods. "Better get cracking, Dawn. I'm hungry too."

"Wait a minute!" Dawn shook her arm loose. "What are you talking about, Bob!? We can't play them!"

"Oh yes we can, and we'd better."

"What for?" Russell shook him off too. "And what was all that baloney about me being out in the sun too long? Now they think I'm crazy!"

"Temporarily. It would be worse if they thought you were crazy permanently."

"What do you mean?"

Bob looked at them both. "Didn't you hear what the Skipper said? The Professor, Mary Ann and Gilligan went to the lagoon, just like we did, and they've been missing all day. And they've got the amulets, just like we have. Don't you realize what's happened?"

It looked as though 'the rest' did realize, but didn't want to say so.

Bob spelled it out for them. "It means it looks like we're not going to get to meet our counterparts after all. They're gone! We've changed places with them!"

Dawn stared. "You mean…the real characters are in Los Angeles, at the studio?"

"Which Gilligan has probably demolished by now." Bob grinned. "But yeah, I think they must be. The amulets moved us, and they must have moved the characters too!"

Russell shook his head. "It's just crazy enough to be true, Bobby, but why pretend we're them? What good will that do?"

"Do you think the others will believe us? Would you believe it if it hadn't happened to you? Look, I've played enough scripts where the castaways thought Gilligan was insane. If the real Skipper is anywhere near as strong as Alan is, and I'll bet he is, I don't much feel like getting wrestled into a makeshift straight-jacket. And there _is_ no phone. We can't call anybody to help us. We're marooned here, just like they are. And we're alone."

"Except for the headhunters," whispered Dawn. "We sure don't need to be in straight-jackets or imprisoned in a cave if they show up!"

"That's right. So let's get cooking." Bob turned to the cauldron. "Here, Russ, toss me some of those bamboo tools and let's scrape this mess out so that Dawn can start over." He took a sniff and waved away the scent. "Ugh! Ginger was right. She should stick to dinner theatre!"

They unhooked the kettle and set it on the ground. Russell grabbed a long bamboo spatula and began to scrape laboriously at the inside. "Playing our characters isn't going to be easy, you know. You know how quickly our fans catch us when we act out of character. These people will be on to us even faster!"

"Oh come, on, Russ, it'll be easy for you. All you have to do is spout some kind of scientific gobbledegook and you're the Professor."

"Easier said than done. All you have to do is say something silly and fall down a lot!"

"Yeah! Talk about easier said than done!" Bob looked over at Dawn, who was sorting over the vegetables and condiments at the sideboard. "At least you're pretty close to your character, Dawn. You really can cook."

"And you're from the country, too," added Russell.

"I am not!"

"You're from Nevada, aren't you?"

"Russ, for your information, Reno is a city. Nevada has a few."

"Oh. Beg pardon, ma'am."

Dawn chuckled good-humouredly. She picked up the pail of lobsters and nodded in approval. "I guess I'll make lobster bisque. It's a good thing I really am a cook. But guys, it's not going to be that simple. I mean, I room with Ginger. I'm going to have to keep up the act in front of her, and we've lived together for three years now!"

Russell grinned. "I'd change places with you if you like, Dawn."

"Huh. Down boy." Dawn began slicing up the vegetables. "Then they'd really know you weren't the Professor! Any more than if Gilligan started chasing after me! This is a very puritanical island, remember?"

"Yeah," sighed Bob, his eyes twinkling as he flashed Dawn a mischievous smile. Then suddenly he sobered. "Hey, wait a minute. What about my roommate?"

"Well, they would really know you weren't Gilligan if you started chasing the—"

"Oh, cut it out, Russ. What I mean is that the Skipper and Gilligan are best buddies! They've got a history, and I barely know it! He's gonna be the hardest of all to fool! And on top of all that, we still don't know how to get back to Los Angeles ourselves!"

The threesome looked at one another for a few moments as their problems seemed to surround them every bit as much as the encroaching jungle. Then Dawn straightened and took on her most practical voice. "Well, first things first. First we'll improvise dinner. Then our characters."


	4. Chapter 4

Bob had his first stunt all planned out. After changing into dry clothes, he began whipping the tin plates at the table like Frisbees, trying to land each at its place setting and having very little luck. The Howells' painstaking arrangement of knives and forks soon went skittering all over the place.

"Gilligan, my boy, what on earth? Even at Yale they know how to sit down at the table!" Mr. Howell came storming over, furious at seeing all his hard work disturbed. "Do you know how long this took Mrs. Howell and me? Give me that!"

Bob blinked and smiled his sweetest smile, but didn't surrender the last plate. "Oh, sorry, Mister Howell! Just one more, huh? I'm practicing landing planes on an aircraft carrier. Watch this!" He waited until he saw the Skipper emerging from the hut and took careful aim.

He was right on target. "Doop!" yelled the Skipper as the projectile struck his belly with the force of a kamikaze fighter.

"Lookout, Skipper! Bandit at twelve o'clock!".

"Gilligan! What in the name of—?" Clutching his hat in frustration, the Skipper stomped over with such speed that Bob instinctively hid behind Mr. Howell.

"Sorry, Skipper! You should stay off the runway when the planes are landing!"

"Oh, Gilligan!" The Skipper tried to whack his first mate over the head with his hat, with a very flustered millionaire in the way.

"Belay that, Captain! Cease and desist, do you hear? The Admiralty will hear of this!"

Just then Mrs. Howell and Ginger appeared. "Thurston! This isn't the Harvard Club, dear. Cocktail hour is over. Come along and sit down."

The Skipper replaced his hat, harrumphed forcefully at Bob and strode over to the table. With a look of extremely injured dignity, Mr. Howell straightened his jacket and ascot and stalked to the table himself.

Russell appeared a moment later. "What's all the shouting about?" he asked, noting Bob's very self-congratulatory grin.

"Just Gilligan fooling around, Professor. How are you feeling, anyway?"

Russell glanced at Bob, rolled his eyes, and moved to the table. "Better, Skipper. I'm sure dinner will do me good." He wasn't entirely sure what place to take, but since the castaways never seemed to have any assigned places, he decided any one would be fine. He slid on to a seat and noticed with relief that nobody objected.

"Supper, everybody!" came Dawn's voice as she appeared carrying a huge seashell-tureen on a tray. She was struggling a bit with the weight of it.

Instinctively Bob hurried over. "Here, let me help you with that!" He took the tray by both handles and carried it smoothly to the table. Deftly he manoeuvred it into an empty space and stood back. "Mmmm! Smells great, Mary Ann!"

He looked up to notice everyone staring at him, the castaways in astonishment and Russell and Dawn in chagrin. The Skipper kept looking from the heavy tureen to the skinny figure in the sailor hat. "Boy, for a minute there I thought we'd all be wearing our dinner. Nice work, little buddy. You handled that like a pro."

"Oh…" Bob grimaced, realizing what he'd done. "Uh, sorry. I mean thanks, Skipper."

Dawn traded a worried glance with Russell and tried to distract everyone from the remarkably dexterous Gilligan. "Pass up your plates, folks. It's best when it's hot!"

"Pass, Gilligan. Not throw," the Skipper said quietly, but he was smiling. A moment later Dawn was ladling the creamy soup into the succession of high-lipped tin plates.

When they had all been served Mrs. Howell took her first taste. "Oh, it's simply wonderful, Mary Ann, dear! Our French chef couldn't have done better! You really must write a cookbook one day."

This time it was Dawn's turn to smile in triumph. "Thank you, Mrs. Howell. Maybe I will one day."

"Thurston would publish it for you, wouldn't you, darling?"

"Absolutely, my dear. It would be the toast of the CIA."

Bob frowned. "The Central Intelligence Agency? Well, I guess even spies have to eat."

Howell smiled condescendingly. "The Culinary Institute of America, dear boy. They're the nation's foremost authority on things gastronomical."

Bob looked at Russell. "Gee, that sounds like the Professor's department. Don't you need a telescope for that or something?"

Russell gave his colleague a withering look. He was desperately hoping no one would ask him anything.

No such luck. The Skipper suddenly cleared his throat and addressed them all. "Now hear this, everyone. We have to devise a plan of action to defend ourselves from the headhunters. Now that the Professor here is back, we don't have to waste any more time."

Russell nearly choked on a chunk of lobster. Bob froze with his spoon in mid-air and Dawn stared at her plate, chewing her lip.

For a moment they thought Mr. Howell might save them all. "Oh, really, Captain. In the middle of dinner? Can't it wait?"

"If we do, we might end up as dinner ourselves, Howell. How does that grab you?"

Ginger shuddered. "I'm on your side, Skipper. Go ahead."

"Thank you, Ginger." The Skipper turned again to the man he thought was the smartest man he'd ever known. "How about it, Professor? You know all about ancient history. What about some kind of defense primitive people used when under attack, even against much larger numbers? You must know some example from history."

Russell took a deep breath and stared pleadingly at Bob.

It took Bob a minute to realize what he wanted. Then he sat up straight. "Thermopylae!" he blurted.

Everyone stared at the ersatz first mate. "What?" said the Skipper.

Bob scrambled. "Uh…that's what you told me it was called, wasn't it, Professor? The Battle of the Three Hundred at Thermopylae?"

"Why, yes…yes, Gilligan! I'm pleased you remember what I taught you! A classic example of primitive military triumph!"

The Skipper looked expectantly at Russell. "Well, Professor? Tell us about it!"

Russell gulped and looked at Bob again. "Well, Gilligan, you seem to remember it very clearly. Why don't you enlighten us?"

Bob grinned. "Okay, Professor. It was in this place called Sparta, in Greece. This guy called General Leonidas had his three hundred Spartans facing ten thousand Persians at the pass at Thermopylae. But they managed to hold the pass until their friends from Athens got there!"

"Excellent, Gilligan!" Russell nodded. "Very well done!"

The Skipper blinked at his first mate and waggled his head as if to clear the cobwebs. "Yes…good job, little buddy. What did they use for weapons?"

"Spears and bronze swords. They hadn't discovered iron yet," Bob said helpfully.

Russell shot a warning look across the table but Bob didn't notice. The Skipper blinked at Bob again and frowned, puzzled, before he turned back to Russell. "Well, that won't work for us. I'll admit I once thought of arming the women, but it's a last resort. Say, what about that big wall somebody built in Great Britain?"

Bob didn't miss a beat. "Hadrian's Wall, built in 122 AD by the Roman Emperor Hadrian. Its Latin name was the _Vallum Aelium. _ He built it to protect Roman Britain from the Pictish…tribes…"

His voice finally petered out as he noticed that everyone was staring at him - _again_. Mr. Howell laughed good-humouredly. "By Jove, my boy! Perhaps you should be the professor!"

The Skipper in particular was eyeing Bob with a dangerous mixture of disbelief and doubt. Dawn saw it and jumped in fast. "Well, uh, I don't really know much about military history, Skipper, but maybe if we try to think of things that have happened to us on the island, maybe that might help us."

"Oh, that's a great idea!" chimed Russell and Bob in unison.

"For instance," Dawn continued, "About arming us women, you're right, Skipper. It's a last resort. I know I wouldn't be much use with a club or spear." Her brown eyes widened as the spirit of Mary Ann seemed to whisper in her ear. "But when I was growing up in Kansas, we knew we couldn't fight the tornadoes either, so we learned how to hide from them."

The Skipper rested his chin in his fingers, considering. "Say, that's not a bad idea, Mary Ann. Makes a lot of sense."

"Now what about that Japanese munitions pit that I fell into and everyone thought I'd disappeared? The headhunters would never find it!"

The Skipper sighed. "That'd be perfect, Mary Ann, if Gilligan hadn't broken the hinges on the hatchway. And anyway, the whole thing caved in during our last earthquake."

Dawn's face fell. Russell, however, was inspired to take another stab at being the Professor. "How about that cave at the base of the volcano? The natives would avoid the area for fear of arousing the wrath of the volcano gods and the geothermal heat would mean there would be no necessity to light a fire and risk detection!"

Ginger shook her head. "Except that you blew that cave up, Professor. Remember?"

Russell gulped. "Oh – good heavens! How could I have forgotten?"

"Strike two," said the Skipper.

Dawn grabbed the ladle and plunged it into the seashell tureen. "Uh…anyone for more soup before it gets cold?"

Bob reached out with his plate. "Sure, I would, Mary Ann. It's great. What's for dessert?"

"Um…it's berries, Gilligan. They're back on the sideboard."

Bob's eyes lit. "Berries! That's it!"

"What's it?" asked the Skipper.

"Those berries, the Keptibora berries! The ones the Professor used on me when I hit my head and saw everything upside down. They made me see everything in twos and fives! Remember? I scared the headhunters away with them!"

"Hey, yeah! Good thinking, little buddy!"

Bob flashed Russell his most disarming Gilligan smile. "You can make that stuff again, can't you, Professor? I'll bet you remember how!"

Russell's glare was sharper than any native's spear. "Why you—you—may have something there, Gilligan. But if I have to experiment, I may need a guinea pig." Now it was his turn to smile, and Bob shrank back like a frightened rabbit.

"Right, Professor. Gilligan and I will look for berries tomorrow morning when we're out gathering firewood and fresh water for our hiding place – if we can ever figure out where to hide. In the meantime, we'll all have things to do. Professor, you'll be reading up on those berries. Mrs. Howell, we've still got that Japanese flag from the munitions pit packed away. I want you to start cutting it into bandages."

Thurston Howell drew himself upright. "Really, Captain. I resist being bandaged in the enemy's colours."

"Quite right, Thurston," agreed his wife. "Red and white quite overpower your complexion, darling."

"Look, you two, if I can handle be bandaged by a Japanese flag, then so can you. Now we haven't got much time left, so we'll have to start early." The Skipper turned to Dawn. "Mary Ann, why don't you and Ginger just lay out a cold buffet of fruit for breakfast tomorrow and we'll come and get what we want when we have a moment?"

"You mean go out into the jungle and pick it?" squeaked Dawn, casting a nervous look around at the forbidding dark ranks of the foliage. "Isn't that kind of dangerous?"

"Yeah!" said Bob. "I should go with you! I mean, with you and Ginger. For protection, I mean."

"Oh, I concur!" cried Russell. "I think I ought to go with Da-I mean Mary Ann – I mean both the girls if they're going to be undertaking anything so hazardous. In fact, Ginger, perhaps you could stay at camp. That way we might lighten the risk."

Ginger raised her eyebrows and tossed her red mane. "Well! I've heard of three being a crowd, but not four!"

"Ginger, I didn't mean--"

The Skipper broke in again like a referee separating prize fighters. "Now hear this. We can't keep coming up with different plans or we'll never get anywhere. Professor, Gilligan, the girls won't be alone. Mr. Howell will go with them as escort."

At this announcement Mr. Howell nearly spilled his soup down his silk ascot. "In the jungle, Captain? With headhunters abroad? And before we've had our breakfast? Not even Captain Bligh would countenance such a thing."

"You'll do it if you want to have any breakfast afterwards, Howell. The girls aren't going into the jungle alone, and that's final."

"Just take your sword cane, darling," said Mrs. Howell, lightly touching his cheek with her hand. "You'll cut such a dashing figure!"

He shuddered. "I only hope the savages don't cut my dashing figure."

"Take a conch shell with you too, Howell. That way you can call for help if there's any trouble. And stay where you're assigned to be, folks. The last thing we need is anyone wandering off like today." A thought suddenly struck the Skipper. "Say, Professor, speaking of which, what did you find out, anyway? About those amulets? Are they the key to getting off the island?"

Russell sighed and stirred at his soup. "I'm not sure, Skipper. But I hope so. I certainly hope so."

From the darkness of the jungle the native scout silently watched the group that sat beneath the flickering torches. Though the aroma of the soup seemed to carve a hole in his belly, he smiled. He slipped away and headed for the other side of the island, where at daybreak he would send the smoke signals to the hunting party across the waves. Soon he and his brothers would feast.


	5. Chapter 5

Early the next morning, Dawn, Ginger and a sleepy, disgruntled Thurston Howell III collected the bamboo shopping cart from the supply hut and set out for the castaways' garden. The millionaire, sporting a pith helmet and festooned with canteen, binoculars and sword cane, was more rigged out than Stanley to find Livingston.

"Dawn!" he muttered.

"Yes?" said the actress, and then jumped. "I mean, yes, Mr. Howell, did you say something?"

"Merely commenting on the ungodliness of the hour," he murmured. "Frankly," and he gave a dramatic yawn, "I'm beginning to suspect the dear Captain of paranoia. Headhunters indeed! Gilligan probably made that campfire during one of his butterfly hunting excursions. Remind me to speak to that boy about behaving responsibly."

Ginger pointed to the large, flat package wrapped in a tarpaulin that the millionaire had insisted on putting in the buggy. "What's that, Mr. Howell?"

"Pays to be prepared, you know," he murmured enigmatically, and hefted his sword cane. "Well, tally ho! I'll protect the rear while you ladies drive."

Ginger raised her eyebrows and grasped the buggy's handlebar. "Grab hold, Mary Ann. Looks like we're leading the charge."

With a worried frown Dawn gave the buggy a shove in the direction Ginger did, but to her relief the trail, like the one to lagoon, was quite easy to follow. The soft reddish earth clung to their feet as they passed through an almost florescent green curtain of young bamboo. Already the humidity was rising and the brunette pulled her pony tail off of her neck, wishing she'd put her hair up. She was glad she'd worn shorts and a halter and wondered, not for the first time, how Ginger could manage in a full-length evening gown.

"Muggy, isn't it?" murmured Ginger.

"I'll say. How do you stand it?"

"I just think about how good it is for my complexion."

"I guess. I'm more used to the desert myself."

"Desert? I thought Kansas was a prairie."

Dawn gulped. "Uh…well, yes, of course it is. But it never got humid there. No big bodies of water. So it kind of felt like the desert compared to this." She didn't dare risk looking beside her for fear of seeing Ginger's reaction. Instead she quickened the pace slightly until the bamboo opened up into a clearing and Mr. Howell, still bringing up the rear, announced their arrival. "Not exactly the plantation at Tara, but a jolly effort all the same, Mary Ann."

It was a corner of the Garden of Eden. Along the edge of the clearing the fronds of the trees: delicate papaya, tall, spreading mango and short, thick-leaved banana stirred gently as though waving a welcome. A rippling creek meandered hypnotically through a thick carpet of rich, nodding green taro. Nearby, stands of spiky pineapple plants, slender breadfruit stalks and tall, willowy sugar cane basked in the melting sunlight.

Dawn gazed around her, mouth hanging open with astonishment. "My gosh…we planted all this?"

"The trees were already here. We only put in the ground plants. That is, you did. This garden was your baby from start to finish." Ginger shook her head and stared at her friend in concern. "Mary Ann, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Ginger. It's just…it's so perfect. I'm happy it's doing so well." Very aware of Ginger's curious eyes on her back, Dawn squared her shoulders and tried to look business-like. "So, Mr. Howell. Where are you going to start?"

"Over there under the trees, my dear. I'll be keeping guard over you ladies." Reaching into the buggy, he deftly pulled off the tarpaulin to reveal a folding bamboo chair and a tattered copy of the _Wall Street Journal_.

The actress flashed a knowing smile at her "roommate." "Don't strain yourself, Mr. Howell."

"Oh, that's quite all right, my dear. It's not too heavy. I'll be over there under the trees, lulling the natives into a false sense of security. Just pick away to your hearts' content, my dears. You'll be completely safe." He unscrewed the canteen lid, unleashing the unmistakable aroma of coffee. "I do hope Lovey remembered the sugar," he murmured, sniffing it. He took the sword and chair in one hand and the paper in the other. "Oh, and Ginger, my dear, if you happen to come across some particularly fine mangos, I'd be glad to relieve you of the burden of carrying them. Well, ta ta, ladies."

Both women shook their heads as he strode off towards the shade. "Looks like I've got the trees, Mary Ann. I guess I'm not exactly dressed for crouching anyway. There's the machete in the buggy for the pineapples. See you." Ginger took a basket from the buggy and swayed off.

Dawn plucked up the machete with two fingers, crouched down and frowned for a moment at the spiny fruits, wondering how exactly to attack them. Nervously she made some tentative hacks, terrified she might lop off a finger. _That's all we'd need_, she thought. _No hospital nearby. No doctor. Gosh, it must be scary for them sometimes._

She struck out at the bush again. Hack! Hack! Hack! It was like trying to chop down a tree. Frustrated, she grabbed the spiny fruit and yelped as the spines pricked.

Ginger turned from the tree she was standing under with a look of utter disbelief. "Mary Ann?"

"What is it?" The young actress's tone was terse.

"Uh…I don't want to sound like your mother, but…where in the world did you learn _that _word?"

Dawn had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing, remembering how often Natalie had shocked with her colourful expressions. "Would you believe…Mrs. Howell?"

Now Ginger started to giggle. She stared at Dawn, biting her tongue. Then, stealing a quick glance towards the far end of the orchard where Thurston Howell sat with his legs stretched out in front and his newspaper over his face, she started to giggle harder. When she dared to look back at Dawn, the two of them burst into laughter. "Now I've heard everything! Mary Ann, I've never seen this side of you before!"

Dawn's smile was infectious. "Honey, you don't know the half of it!" She stood up, took a deep breath, and decided to tackle the sugar cane. At least it wasn't spiny.

Planting her feet firmly, she took a few swings with the machete. The seven foot tall plants rattled slightly, but didn't bend. Determined, Dawn took hold of a thick stem and hewed at it like a miniature Paul Bunyan in short shorts.

At last Ginger called to her. "Um…Mary Ann…doesn't the Skipper usually set fire to the cane first?"

"Set fire to it?" Dawn kept hacking. "What on earth for?"

"Well, to burn off those sharp—

"Ow!"

"--leaves. And fire helps to scare away all the—"

_"Eeeek!"_ Dawn used another colourful word and leaped about three feet in the air as a brightly banded snake fell to the ground in twenty rings and slithered off into the jungle.

The _Wall Street Journal_ whipped into the air as Thurston Howell jumped to his feet, brandishing the chair in front of him like a lion tamer. "Ah! Hold them off, ladies! I'll run for help!"

The redhead rolled her eyes. "It's all right, Mr. Howell. Mary Ann got startled by a grass snake, that's all. We're fine."

"Oh…oh, I see! Ha, ha! Poor little Mary Ann! Chin up, my dear. Just be brave, like me." The rattled millionaire settled back into his chair.

Ginger beckoned. "Maybe the machete's just dull, Mary Ann. The sun's too hot for that kind of thing anyway. Why don't you help me over here? It's cooler here in the shade."

With a sigh, Dawn wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. "Be glad to, Ginger. Thanks." A moment later she joined Ginger with a basket of her own.

Ginger reached up and plucked a bright green papaya from its stem. "For a minute I thought you were turning into Gilligan. Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

"I'm fine, Ginger. Just tired, I guess, after all that walking yesterday."

"Oh. Well, gee, if you're feeling tired, maybe you'd better sit down. Don't want you fainting out here. Gilligan's not here."

Dawn raised a quizzical brow as she snapped off a bunch of bananas and dropped them in her basket. "What difference would that make?"

"He couldn't do what he did the last time you fainted. Remember?" Ginger paused. "Oh, I guess you wouldn't…because you'd fainted!"

That made for an easy way out. "Well, what did he do?"

"I'll never forget it. It was when you thought you were me and were trying to sing up there on stage. When you collapsed, Gilligan rocketed onto that stage before the rest of us had even moved. He didn't even use the steps. I saw him. He just leaped up there, right to your side. The next thing we knew, he practically picked you up and carried you off the stage. It was so romantic." She sighed a little. "Gosh…I'd love for some man to do that for me."

Dawn remembered the episode and suddenly felt a rush of regret that she wouldn't get to meet the real Gilligan. "I'm sure he would do it for you too, Ginger. He'd do it for anybody. He's a good friend."

"He sure is. I feel like he's the brother I never had." The tall redhead flashed an elaborately innocent grin at her friend. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Remember when we first landed on the island? It was 'Oh, Gilligan, you're so wonderful! You're so sweet!' You made him so many coconut cream pies I was afraid he was going to end up as big as the Skipper!" Ginger laughed at the very picture.

_I wish Sherwood had given me some idea where this was supposed to go_, thought Dawn. "Well? What of it?"

"Well, you still make him a pie every now and then, but you're not as patient with him anymore. You're more like a big sister to him, and sometimes a bossy one at that!"

Dawn blinked. "That's not true!"

"Sure it is. Remember when we were practicing for Mr. and Mrs. Howell's remarriage ceremony and you and Gilligan played bride and groom, and he wouldn't kiss you? Boy were you mad at him." Ginger suddenly paused and smiled. "Then again, that's not really how a big sister would react, is it? And the way you were all over him when you thought you were me…was that you thinking you were me or you thinking you were you?"

Dawn wrenched yet another bunch free. "Now _you're _starting to sound like Gilligan!"

"Well, he certainly was eager to come with you today. So was the Professor, come to that. Gee, I was starting to feel like a fifth wheel!"

_Uh oh_. Dawn bit her lip. _The guys have to be with me for us to escape!_ _This might get awkward._ "Ginger, that's nonsense. The Professor and Gilligan are just friends to me, that's all."

"I see…so the Professor was just being a friend when we had the Miss Castaway contest and suddenly he was toasting the lady with sweetness and warmth?"

_So that's what this is all about_, thought Dawn. "He was just being a gentleman, Ginger."

"He's always a perfect gentleman, that's for sure. And not a bad coach either. I can't get over how much he must know about beauty contests. You handled ours pretty well, and you'd never even been in a beauty contest before."

"I was Miss Nevada." The words were out of Dawn's mouth before she could bite them back.

Ginger whirled, astonished. The ripe mango fell out of her hand and landed on the ground with a soft thud. "What? You were in the Miss America Pageant?"

"It's no big deal. I didn't win."

"But…the Miss America Pageant! I follow it every year!" The movie star was absolutely flabbergasted. "I don't remember ever seeing you!"

"Do you remember every girl in every pageant? It was before we were shipwrecked. You didn't even know me then."

"Oh. Wow."

It was a few moments before either woman spoke again. They gathered fruit silently until Dawn plunged her arm deep into the banana fronds, groping about for one more bunch. Ginger saw her and gasped. "Uh…Mary Ann…I don't think you want to do that…"

Dawn looked over at the movie star as she felt the stem give and dragged the bunch into the open. "Why not?"

Ginger's face was as white as the inside of a coconut. "B-because that's where _they_ live," she murmured, pointing to Dawn's arm.

The brunette looked back to see what appeared to be a hairy brown glove perched on her wrist. Two of the "fingers" were moving.

It seemed that Walter the pigeon had missed one, after all.

The screech Dawn let out could have been heard on the other side of the island. It could have been heard in Los Angeles. Ginger's scream was fairly impressive too. She ducked as Dawn flung her arm up, hurling the tarantula in a perfect arc over the top of a papaya tree. While it was still in mid-air Dawn stampeded to the creek, leaped in and plunged her arm in up to her shoulder. She started scrubbing violently.

On the other side of the clearing, Thurston Howell was now cowering behind the chair, only the top of his pith helmet visible. "Girls! Over here! We'll hide under my newspaper!"

"Just a spider, Mr. Howell," called Ginger.

"Oh…oh, a spider! Oh, Mary Ann, darling. How did you ever manage on a farm? Well, never fear. If any nasty little mice come along, Thurston Howell the III will protect you!" Still chuckling, the millionaire began gathering up his gear.

As he headed back in their direction, Ginger moved out from under the shade of the trees and approached the edge of the creek. "Gee, Mary Ann – with a pitching arm like that you could play for the Dodgers!" She cocked her head, looking closely at her companion. "Now if you'd fainted, who would have caught you?"

Dawn was scrubbing so hard she thought her tan would come off. "I guess you would have. You're the only one here."

Ginger laughed. "No, I mean the Professor or Gilligan? Which one is your 'Mr. Castaway'?"

Dawn splashed her way onto the bank, whipping the water from her arm. "I don't know, Ginger. Honestly, I just don't know."

Thurston Howell had arrived and carefully set his chair and newspaper down in the buggy. "Ah, capital idea, Mary Ann. This foraging is jolly warm work, I must say." Daintily he dipped his silken handkerchief in the creek and mopped his aristocratic brow. "Let's make our way back speedily, shall we? Mrs. Howell particularly requested your company back at our hut, Mary Ann."

Ginger rolled her eyes again and shook her head in humorous self-deprecation. "Gee whiz – now it's even another woman!"

Mr. Howell turned back to her. "I beg your pardon, Ginger dear?"

Ginger made a mournful face. "Mr. Howell, do you think I'm beautiful?"

"My dear, any man worth his salt would give his right arm to be shipwrecked on the same island with you. Come along, now."

She blew him a kiss. "Thanks, Mr. Howell. You're a doll!"


	6. Chapter 6

Bob trotted down the beach behind the Skipper, deliberately keeping to the rear so the older man wouldn't notice his first mate staring all around. It was hard for the actor to remember to bend down and pick up driftwood when his eyes were swallowing the view like a starving man. Here was yet another Hawaiian landscape reborn on the strange isle. Lumahai Beach, or its mirror image, stretched its golden sand along a vanguard of soaring palms, while behind them loomed the lush green hills. The air rang with the cries of the seagulls that skimmed and dipped above the shimmering waves. _Gosh, I wish I could live here_, thought Bob_. Or at least in Kauai. I'd love to raise Patrick and Megan in a place like this. So peaceful…_

"Gilligan! What in the world are you doing?"

Bob jumped and searched frantically for his line, then realized it wasn't Alan speaking to him. "Uh…gathering wood, Skipper!"

He noticed now that the Skipper seemed to carrying enough wood to build a log cabin. His own haul, by contrast, was about enough to play poohsticks with.

The Skipper gave him a long-suffering look. "Well since wood doesn't seem to interest you, get that gunny sack on your shoulder full of coconuts! On the double!"

"Aye-aye, sir!" Bob turned and dashed for the jungle, then skidded to a stop. He craned his head up at the impossibly tall coconut palms, looked back at the Skipper, then back at the trees.

"What's the matter?"

"Uh, Skipper, I don't think I ought to climb these trees."

"Why not?"

"Uh…" Sometimes it was easy to sound like Gilligan. "Well, this looking on the ground for stuff works kinda well. We found lots of wood that way. Why don't I look for coconuts?"

"Waves wash the driftwood up on shore. You need a storm to knock coconuts down. We haven't had one."

"Oh. Well…what about what they did in that old movie, _The Swiss Family Robinson_? They threw stones at the monkeys and the monkeys threw back coconuts!"

"Do you see any monkeys?"

Bob searched the trees, his heart sinking. "No."

"Then quit stalling and get up there!"

The slim actor gulped, shuffled his way across the sand to one of the trees and leaned way back, looking at the slim, branchless trunk. He had absolutely no idea how to scale it.

The Skipper would have put his hands on his hips if his arms hadn't been loaded with wood. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

_My stuntman_, thought Bob, but couldn't say it. Frantically he racked his memory of the episodes for a way out. Then – "Skipper, I can't. I'm afraid of heights!"

"Since when?"

"Since I fell out of that tree and hurt my nose. Remember? I could have broken my neck!"

The Skipper shuddered. "Gosh, don't remind me! Well, I'll admit, little buddy, that was a scary fall, but you've climbed plenty of trees since. Why should it bother you now?"

"Uh…I didn't want to worry you, Skipper, but—"

That did it. The Skipper tensed, his stance suddenly shifting. "But what? Did something happen to you?"

"Yeah! Yesterday!" _And I better remember to tell Russ and Dawn about this_, he thought. "The Professor asked me to climb a coconut tree so I could see to find our way back and I nearly fell out, but don't worry, I—look out, Skipper!"

It was too late. At the words "nearly fell out" the horrified Skipper had dropped his load of wood to the ground. The biggest log fell right on his foot.

"Doop!" The Skipper hopped wildly for a few moments, clutching his foot, but only moments later was staggering over to his slight companion and feeling his arms for breaks and bruises. "My gosh, little buddy! Are you okay! You didn't get hurt, did you?"

"No, I'm fine, Skipper," said Bob, a little guiltily, as he saw the naked worry in the Skipper's eyes. "I grabbed a branch just in time. Did make me a little gun-shy of tall trees, I guess."

"I guess! Did you scrape your hands or—" The Skipper had caught up Bob's right hand and suddenly paused, staring intently at the tips of Bob's fingers. "Gilligan…what's this yellow stuff?"

Bob looked at the nicotine stains. "Oh, they're just…just from this funny yellow plant we found yesterday. It's kind of hard to wash off."

"I see." Now Bob found himself subjected to the scrutiny of those blue eyes, and felt like a teenager found smoking behind the school. "Anyhow," the Skipper continued as he dropped Bob's hand (much to the latter's relief), "I suppose we can do without coconuts for now. Come on, help me gather up this wood and we'll head back. We can look for those berries of the Professor's on the way."

"Sure, Skipper." The pair plodded back down to the sand where the scattered wood lay. As they bent and gathered the stray pieces, Bob looked out once more to where the sunlight sparkled all the way out to the aquamarine horizon. _I sure could live here_.

"Straighten up, Gilligan. Hold out your arms."

Bob did so without thinking, and the next moment slumped as half the Skipper's load of logs was pulling his arms down like iron chains. He gasped, trying to stand up straight.

"Come on, Gilligan. As long as you're not carrying coconuts, you can help me carry wood. Let's get going."

Bob turned and staggered along in the Skipper's wake. _Boy_, he thought. _I could sure live here, all right…if my name wasn't Gilligan._


	7. Chapter 7

Dawn followed Mr. Howell through the red-blanketed bamboo French doors into the rustic opulence of the Howell hut. Once inside she gazed around, taking it all in. The huts looked so strange with all four walls! There was the neat pair of beds with their patterned tapa cloth blankets, the coconut chandelier, the giant seashell wash-basin, Mrs. Howell's dressing table with its long grass skirt, and the mysterious other room with its long, beaded curtain. Dawn shook her head, marveling. It was all real.

The real Mrs. Howell herself was seated at the dressing table. "Oh, there you are, Mary Ann, dear. I'm sorry the place isn't more presentable, but as you were gone all of yesterday and Ginger complained that she wasn't feeling well, there was no one left to clean for us."

Dawn raised an eyebrow and tried to stifle a giggle at the complete lack of irony in Mrs. Howell's tone. In the meantime Mr. Howell pulled a chair over to face his wife's. "Please do sit down, Mary Ann dear. Mrs. Howell was going to ask you about making her a new dress. Something in chiffon, wasn't it, my sweet? Assuming the next chest that floats ashore has chiffon in it, that is." He turned to go. "Well, I'll just leave you two ladies to discuss things, shall I?"

"Oh, wait a moment, Thurston, dear. I'd like you to stay. There's something much more urgent we ought to discuss, now that dear Mary Ann is here."

Her husband turned back, a suspicious look in his eye. "Lovey, what's this about? You haven't gotten me to help you under false pretenses, have you?"

Lovey was innocently shocked. "Of course not, Thurston! Whatever are you thinking? But the fact is, Mary Ann, that Thurston and I have come to regard you as the daughter we never had."

Dawn smiled fondly at the thought of her own relationship with Natalie. "Oh, that's very sweet, Mrs. Howell! Thank you."

"And we feel obliged to offer you the sort of guidance your parents would, if they were here on the island."

"We do?" Thurston Howell cleared his throat. "Well, that is to say, we do think of you as a daughter, certainly, Mary Ann. But honestly, Lovey, Mary Ann is a very sensible girl. I should think she would know when to come to us for advice, when she wants it."

"Oh, don't be silly, Thurston. If people only came to other people when they wanted advice, they'd never get the advice they really need. Like the kind you need now, Mary Ann, dear." Mrs. Howell leaned forward and patted Dawn's knee gently. "Advice about standards of propriety, for example."

Instinctively Dawn glanced down and hiked up the waistband of her shorts. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Howell. I know my navel peeks out every so often."

"And it's very charming!" Mr. Howell put in quickly -- too quickly, he realized, as he saw his wife's surprised glance. "Ahem…I mean…it's charming you should be so concerned about such a thing."

Mrs. Howell raised her eyebrows at her husband, but smiled at Dawn. "Yes, that's part of what I mean, my dear. The fact is that living here on this island makes demands on all of us, and we all have a responsibility to one another. Thurston and I, for example, have taken it upon ourselves to maintain the social standards by dressing appropriately for every occasion and creating our own exclusive club. It's difficult work, I grant you, but we do it out of a sense of public duty."

Dawn tried to look very serious, and hoped she was succeeding. "Well, I'm sure we all appreciate your sacrifice, Mrs. Howell. But what does this have to do with me?"

"A great deal, Mary Ann, dear. Here in this natural setting, our less civilized tendencies can easily get the better of us. Thurston and I have occasionally taken tea at three instead of four, simply because we were hungry. But we mustn't weaken. It's the first step on the slippery slope to savagery."

"And the next thing you know, you're a Yale man," added Mr. Howell.

"Oh. And have I been behaving like a Yale man…I mean woman?" The young actress's jaw muscles were twitching with repressed giggles now.

Mrs. Howell gave a slight, embarrassed lift of her satin-enveloped shoulders. "Well, my dear, I feel bound to point out that spending all day alone in the company of the Professor and Gilligan, and then their subsequent quarreling over you at dinner, looks like—"

The giggles burst out as full-fledged guffaws. "Oh, Mrs. Howell, is that what this is all about? That's absolutely ridiculous! They just wanted to be sure I was safe! And for heaven's sake, we didn't mean to spend the whole day together! We got lost!"

Mrs. Howell was alarmed at her young protégé's attitude. "Mary Ann, this is no laughing matter! Lost? My dear girl, are you truly that naïve? The Professor, lost? The man was a scoutmaster! Do you think they would have let him go out with a troop of little boys if he was the sort of man to become lost in a place he had lived in for almost three years?"

That calmed Dawn down a bit. "Well…Gilligan's not a scoutmaster," she offered lamely.

Mr. Howell now attacked from the other side. "No, I grant you, Mary Ann, but Gilligan has roamed about this island more than any of us, either going into hiding for one reason or another or looking for new pets to add to his menagerie. I could imagine him being lost for a short while, but hardly until nightfall."

Surrounded and outgunned, Dawn sighed and crossed her arms in a gesture of defeat. "Mr. and Mrs. Howell, believe me, those two are two of the sweetest fellows I've ever met. They're perfect gentlemen. I can't imagine either one of them trying to take advantage of me."

"Neither can I, my dear!" assured Mrs. Howell. "Oh, on the contrary! Perish the thought! But they are still men, and living on this island for so long has its pressures. And you are a very pretty girl. It isn't fair of you to put temptation in their way, however innocently. Even the strongest man can be swayed by a pretty face…or navel." She glanced up at her husband as she said this, and he had the good grace to blush.

"Well…" Dawn felt helpless. _I have to stick near Bob and Russ, or we might not be able to get home!_ "What do you think I should do?"

Mrs. Howell lifted her gloved, bejeweled hands in a gesture of suggestion. "Well, my dear, if you have fond feelings for one of them, I suggest you tell him and bring things into the open!" She clasped her hands like a child over a new toy. "I should so love to plan a wedding!"

Both Thurston and Dawn rolled their eyes at that. "Lovey, my dear, remember the last time you tried to form a match between Mary Ann and Gilligan? It was a disaster on par with Neville Chamberlain's plea for peace!"

"Oh, Thurston, it wasn't as bad as all that. And I think a wife like Mary Ann would do Gilligan a world of good. Every man needs a wife to help build his character."

Dawn laughed. "I think I'd scare Gilligan to death. And what about the Professor?"

This time it was the millionaire who laughed. "Well, confidentially, Mary Ann, our Professor isn't exactly the great lover either. I'll never forget directing the love scene between him and Ginger when we made our silent film." He took on the Professor's affronted academic tone. "'Kissing on the mouth is far from sanitary! It can lead to all kinds of bacterial transfer!' I mean, really! What man worth his weight in hormones wouldn't give his right arm for a chance to—" this time he caught himself before Lovey even had a chance to glance in his direction, "—become a star in a Thurston Howell production?"

Fortunately for him, Mrs. Howell was still revelling in her dream of planning nuptials. "And besides, I'd always thought the Professor and Ginger would make a lovely couple. They're closer in height; it would look so much nicer in the wedding pictures."

Dawn sighed. "I'd rather take it slowly, Mrs. Howell, whatever I decide. But…" and a sudden impish smile lit her face. "I'll see what I can do."

Mrs. Howell's own smile was radiant. "Oh, that's wonderful, dear. Now, about that dress—"

Suddenly the air was rent by an explosion.

"What in the world?" they all cried, and raced out of the hut.


	8. Chapter 8

A short while earlier…

In the Professor's hut Russell sat flipping miserably through a thick book that crowned a whole stack of weighty tomes. In his other hand he held a vial of white powder. "Damn high school chemistry! Never made sense to me then and doesn't now!" Beside the books on the table stood the mysterious collection of gourds, vines and flaming coconut Bunsen burners of the Professor's laboratory. "Not to mention the fact that the supposed "genius" has hardly labeled anything. This stuff could be nitro-glycerin for all I know!"

"You're dynamite enough for me, Professor."

Russell looked up to see a redheaded bombshell in the doorway, one leg bent forward, one hand poised provocatively on her hip. Every inch of her gown was as filled and firm as a pneumatic tire. In a flash of déjà vu, Russell's stomach and brain suddenly felt as they had the time his fighter plane had gone down in flames during the war. The sensation was mildly comparable to being alone in a room with Ginger Grant.

_This creature does not know I am not the Professor, _he thought_. This creature does not know I am married_. Suddenly the fighter plane seemed the much safer option. Without thinking he tipped the vial of powder into the pot of berries stewing above a burner and the mixture fizzed like shaken soda pop.

Ginger raised an eyebrow. "Is it supposed to do that?"

"Huh?" Russell turned to see white foam gushing over the pot's rim onto the table. "Oh…" he hurriedly plopped a heavy lid on the pot, stopping the flow. The pot vibrated a little. "Yes, you see, this is the…the semper ubi sub ubi e pluribus unum that I've been working on. It seems to be developing as I expected."

"That's wonderful," the tall, titian-haired actress purred. She rippled forwards, her gown stretching sinuously as she moved. Stopping a few feet from Russell, she turned and pointed to the bubbling, dripping, hissing apparatus. "Have you started with the keptibora berries?

"Oh, yes. The Skipper and B—I mean the Skipper and Gilligan brought some by earlier. They're boiling in this pot – uh, yes, this one, the one I just covered, I mean." He smiled feebly and made a wretched attempt to look like a man who knew what he was talking about.

Fortunately, Ginger was simply flattered by his nervousness. "I see. Can you explain it all to me? You're such a wonderful teacher."

"Uh…well, it's really very simple, Ginger. What we have here are the three basic components of all matter. You see," and he pointed to the various objects with an unsteady finger, "these are the…uh…protons, these are the neutrons, and these are the…um…the morons." He smiled the desperate smile again. "Just the basic principles of theoretic chemistry."

Fortunately, the starlet had about as much knowledge of theoretic chemistry as Gilligan (or any of the other castaways, for that matter). She merely nodded, impressed, and eyed her companion archly through her long black lashes. "There's more than one kind of chemistry, Professor. I like our kind a lot better."

"Uh…well…" _Think of your wife. Think of your lovely wife_, Russell told himself. He backed away. "I really have a great deal of work to do here, Ginger…"

The pot was vibrating a bit more now, rattling slightly on the bamboo table.

Ginger slunk around the table after him, like a cat preparing to pounce on a particularly tasty mouse. "I actually came to ask a favour, Professor. I was wondering if you'd...do something for me."

"Well, if I have time..."

"Remember when you made Mary Ann all those cosmetics, when we were in the Miss Castaway Contest?"

"I'll never forget it." Russell's eyes lit at the memory of the scene where he and Bob had to pull Dawn's bathing suit off with a fishing line. It had been one of the funniest scenes they had ever done. Not to mention one of the pleasantest.

Ginger saw his look and misunderstood it. Her lips pursed. "That was very kind of you, helping her out and all. I would have thought Gilligan would have been the one to champion her cause. You both certainly did last night."

Russell looked up at the change in her tone and heard the vulnerability beneath it. It couldn't be easy for someone whose stock-in-trade was beauty to suddenly be ignored and excluded. Her weakness gave him strength. "Ginger, you don't need anyone to champion your cause. "Whether you're on the runway or in the jungle, you can hold your own with anybody. But I'm glad to see you're back safe."

The words worked magic. Ginger stood up straight, flashing him a genuinely happy smile. "Oh, Professor, that's so sweet of you!"

"It's just the truth. I hope I always tell you the truth, Ginger." _At least I hope the Professor always does_.

She actually blushed and looked down. Then, taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead. "Well, what I was going to ask was, could you make me some kind of tonic for my hair? Something to protect it from the sun? I'm afraid I'll be bleached orange by the time we're rescued. Please, Professor?"

"I'd be glad to," he said magnanimously, momentarily forgetting that he was not the Professor.

"Great!" Ginger glanced over at the stores of bamboo containers in his cupboard and saw one that actually did have a label. "Say! What about this stuff? Can I have it?"

She took it out of the cupboard to show him. The label said, "papaya nut hair tonic."

"Sure."

She looked at it for a moment, turning it around in her hand. "But are you sure it will work on my hair? I don't want it to do anything bad to my colour."

"I'm sure it won't." _How could it_, he thought, _when it actually says hair tonic?_

She sighed, frowning. "I'm just not sure…"

Now was a chance to look as though he knew something, and a chance to get Ginger's scrutiny away from his "experiments." Russell shook out some of the dark liquid on his hand and smoothed it swiftly through his brown hair. "There, you see? No problem. No problem at all!"

"Oh, it looks great, Professor! I love the smell of hair tonic. Come over here."

But no sooner had they both taken a big sniff that they gasped and sneezed as though they'd inhaled pepper. They sneezed and sneezed again, and began scratching themselves in desperation.

"Professor!" Ginger wheezed. "That's 'achoo!' Gilligan's hair tonic! The one that made everyone 'achoo!' allergic! I almost put that in my 'achoo!' hair!"

"I did 'achoo!' put it in mine! Oh, brother!" The pair jerked and convulsed about the room like teenagers in a jitterbug contest.

At last Ginger noticed something above the sound of their wild sneezes. "Professor, what's that 'achoo!' rattling noise?"

They both turned around, searching for its source, and saw the pot bouncing now, the foam pushing the heavy lid up into the air. Instinctively Russell grabbed Ginger and propelled her towards the door. "Get out! It's gonna blow!"

BOOM!

Dawn and the Howells came rushing into the centre of camp to find Ginger, otherwise unharmed except for slightly disheveled hair, and Russell with his hair and shirt dyed purple from keptibora juice.

"What happened?" cried the ignorant three.

Ginger rubbed her pretty nose and grinned at Russell. "Well, Professor…your experiments are sure nothing to sneeze at!"


	9. Chapter 9

Meanwhile, the Skipper and Bob had made their way to the subterranean cavern of fresh water Gilligan had discovered years earlier. There was now no danger that anyone would fall in: the yawning hole in the earth was surrounded by a split rail bamboo fence, complete with gate. At the edge of the hole was a bamboo frame with a pulley hung from the middle. The Skipper untied a bucket from the end of the wooden yoke lying on the ground, tied it to the vine that snaked over the pulley, and dropped the bucket into the hole.

"This is the last one left. You got your pails tied back onto your yoke, yet, Gilligan?"

"In a minute, Skipper," came a weak, weary voice. "I'm just so tired!" Bob sat slumped on a large rock, his dark bangs dripping with sweat and his breath coming in great gasps. He had long ago stripped off the long-sleeved rugby shirt in favour of his grey t-shirt, but he still panted like a man who had just run the Boston marathon – twice.

"What do you mean? All we did was take the wood back to camp. Then I had you climb that little hill to pick some berries."

"Little hill? Skipper, that was the volcano!"

"Gilligan, the volcano's on the other side of the island and you know it! What's the matter with you?" The Skipper looked up from where he was hauling up the bucket and suddenly stopped, staring at something behind Bob's back. The big sailor rolled his eyes and tisked. "Oh, brother, not again! Gilligan, one of your monkeys has got your bucket. Get it away from him, will you?"

"Okay, Skipper." Bob wondered which of the monkeys from the show it was: perhaps the cute little baby chimp from the first season. Bob sighed, hoping the little fellow wasn't in a nipping mood. He struggled to his feet, swung round, took two steps and stopped dead.

Not twelve feet from him, standing on massive arms and glowering from a pair of fierce beady eyes, was a five hundred pound silverback gorilla.

If it wasn't King Kong, it was a close relative. Those arms were like tree trunks, the belly like a wine vat. Huge muscles rippled across the broad back. When Bob made eye contact the apparition curled back its lips to reveal wicked fangs. A foot-long hand was curled around the water bucket.

For a few moments Bob forgot to breathe. "Janos, that's not you, is it?" he whispered.

The Skipper frowned at him. "You named that one Arnold, didn't you? After the big guy that used to chase Skinny Mulligan around the block every day?"

Bob was backing up now, not even caring if he fell in the hole. The figure before him was certainly not Janos Prohaska. The Hungarian stuntman, skilled gorilla imitator though he was, couldn't have filled out a costume half that size.

"S-Skipper? Why don't we let him have the bucket?"

"What? And just go down the road and buy another one at the hardware store? We need that bucket, Gilligan!"

"Then _you_ go get it from him!"

The Skipper shook his head and stared at his first mate. "What's gotten into you today? You're the one that's his friend, not me. Come on, Gilligan, full speed ahead!" In exasperation he reached over and grabbed a banana from their lunch provisions. "Here. Offer him this. Now get going!" And with an unceremonious shove he sent Bob sprawling forwards, almost smack into the giant primate.

Bob staggered to a stop and stood frozen. The great ape inclined its head slightly and grunted. Its cavernous black nostrils flared as it scented the air.

"Why don't you stick out your hand and let him sniff you, like you always do?"

_Because I'm not Gilligan, I'm Bob!_ Bob saw the great fangs flashing again as the beady eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" he moaned. "You're supposed to be in Africa! Damn crazy writers!"

"Gilligan, we haven't got all day!"

Bob was willing to take all year, but he realized that if he made a sudden movement or took away the banana, he might enrage the behemoth. Trembling, he crouched down and set the banana on the ground, then backed up very slowly. Just as slowly the gorilla removed its huge hand from the bucket and delicately grasped the banana. It raised the yellow fruit to its nose, took a sniff, and then took a cautious bite.

With the silent grace of a burglar, Bob turned to go.

"**RAARRGH!**"

The moment the guttural roar hit his ear Bob took off in a wild run, yelling almost as loud as the gorilla itself. He was fast but the ape was faster, and it swung 'round in front of him and cut him off. Frantic, Bob dashed for the trees, screaming for all he was worth. "Help! Skipper! Help!"

The Skipper scowled in annoyance. "Gilligan, stop fooling around. He's going to kick the water over!"

"He's going to kill me! Help! _**Alan!!!**_" The pair was charging about the trees now in a mad chase of in-and-out-the-windows, leaves and sand flying as in a storm. At last, Bob emerged and made a last ditch charge towards the Skipper. Fear lent him wings and he launched himself into a perfect Gilligan-leap into the Skipper's arms.

Five feet from the Skipper the gorilla skidded to a halt, great nose blowing out thick pants of air. Then it sniffed, turned and barreled back into the dense jungle.

Jonas Grumby looked unsympathetically at the trembling man in his arms. "Well, if you're through playing, little buddy, can we get back to our chores?"

Bob clung tightly to him. "He was going to _kill_ me!"

The Skipper was flabbergasted. "Arnold? That big softie? The one that carried you on his back all the way to camp that time you hurt your foot? The one who's gotta learn how to shake hands because you're getting tired of his great big hugs? What are you talking about?"

"B-but he was roaring! He was chasing me!"

"Well, it's your own fault! You're the one who taught him how to play tag." The big man set Bob's feet back on the ground, where the traumatized actor shook like a palm tree in a typhoon. "And I thought you said you named him Arnold."

"Wh-what?"

"You called him Alan a minute ago."

"Oh…" Bob swayed on his feet, faint, until the Skipper had to hold him 'round the waist to steady him. "I – I don't remember, Skipper. I don't feel so good."

"You'd better feel good enough to carry those buckets of water, because we haven't got time to come back for them."

The wooden yoke and brimming buckets didn't seem half as bad to Bob as they had when he'd first contemplated carrying them back. "Whatever you say, Skipper. Just please, please, can we go back to camp now?"

"I think we'd better." The Skipper stared strangely at him. "You're just not yourself today."


	10. Chapter 10

As the waters of the lagoon rippled in the regal glow of the sunset, four outrigger canoes glided silently into view. On the shore stood the native scout, waving them in.

When the invaders hopped into the shallows and pulled their canoes ashore, the scout motioned them to where his own craft lay hidden in the dense undergrowth. One of the warriors approached him, the dying light gleaming on the wickedly sharp tip of his spear. "Good hunting here?" he asked in his own tongue.

"Seven long pig," said the scout. "See one machete. No more weapons. We attack tonight?"

"Need rest from long journey," said the other. "We make camp. Attack just after dawn." He laughed evilly. "Let long pig eat breakfast first! Make him fatter for us!"

A blue moon rose in the sunset's place, painting the island in sapphire light and deep shadow. After the castaways had retired for bed Russell sat up by the campfire in the Professor's spare shirt, scrubbing his berry-stained shirt in a soap-filled bucket. After a moment Bob came staggering out of the crew's hut, dragging a tall wooden drum under his arm. He slumped down by the fire until the drum lay flat, the head still under his arm. "Oh, God, Russ, do I need a smoke."

"Good luck finding a cigar store around here," said Russell wearily. "And anyhow, you'd be out of character."

Bob frowned and glanced with a puzzled look at the ends of his fingers.

"What's the matter?"

"I was supposed to tell you and Dawn something about that." He yawned hugely. "Now I can't remember what it was."

"Tell Dawn what?"

The two actors jumped, and then sighed in relief. "Don't scare us like that, Dawn. You could have been anybody!"

She put her hands on her hips. "Oh, sure, Russ. I could have been the Skipper! We're practically twins."

Russell sighed as he held the streaming shirt up out of the water. "I didn't even see you. I was looking at this! I'll never get it clean!"

"Well, don't look at me," said Dawn. "I'm not using Gilligan's bleach. I don't want my hair to fall out."

"Ack!" Russell dropped the shirt as though it were covered with acid. "Very funny!"

Bob snorted, but was too tired to laugh for long. He yawned heavily. "Say, Dawn, that was a great supper."

Dawn sat down cross-legged between the two men and shook her head. "Well, only you two know it. Everybody else was laughing too hard to eat! What in the world have the two of you been doing all day? Trying to out-Gilligan Gilligan?"

"No more than you have, Little Miss Muffet." Bob glanced at the sand beside Dawn. "Oooo. My goodness. Is that a spider?"

The girl raised a challenging eyebrow and looked behind Bob. "Oooo. My goodness. Is that a gorilla?"

"Touché ." Bob thrummed a light fanfare on his drum, and then leaned back, doffing his sailor cap. "Of course, the Professor here absolutely stole the show. Blowing up the laboratory! Sheesh! Way to go, Russ. What'll you do for an encore?"

Russell groaned and pointed an accusing finger. "It's all your fault, Mr. First Mate. You started it."

"Did not."

"Did too. You're the one who said I could duplicate that stupid potion with the berries."

"How was I to know you'd throw in something explosive? Don't you read labels?"

"The Professor hardly labels anything! I guess he just remembers where everything is!"

Bob shook his head, his laughter bubbling up again. "But Ginger said the papaya nut oil _was_ labeled. Why'd you want to put it in your hair?"

"And what about you?" Russell retorted. "Whatever gave you the idea to play tag with a gorilla?"

"That was the Skipper's idea, not mine!"

"Thank God Sherwood put the kibosh on that idea to give Gilligan a pet dinosaur," said Dawn. "You could have been chased around by a T-Rex!"

Bob's eyes went as wide as soup-plates. "Yeah…I could have!" After a moment, he looked at Dawn. "Say, speaking of chasing, what was the idea of the big smooch you gave me in front of everybody after dinner? Not that I'm complaining, but what was it for?"

"Yeah!" said Russell. "And how come I didn't get one?"

Dawn smiled her impish smile. "Just to please Mrs. Howell. Ginger too."

"It sure pleased Bob," said Bob. "But I don't know how pleased Mary Ann is going to be when she gets back, though. Or Gilligan, or the Professor!"

"Oh! I never thought of that!" The actress flipped her hair back and buried her forehead in her hands. "Well, I haven't blown berry juice all over myself or put sneezing oil in my hair or gotten chased around by a big ape, but I have had myself a day. What with an island filled with creepy crawlies, and Ginger and the Howells thinking I've got a thing for either you or the Professor…or both of you!"

Bob grinned. "A ménage a trois! Say, Russ, what do you think? The CBS censors wouldn't mind."

"Of course not! Should be great for the ratings. Let's tell Sherwood when we get home!"

"Oh, you just try it, boys. I'll tell your wives it was your idea." Dawn suddenly grew serious. "Guys, this is the first chance we've had to talk since we got here. What are we going to do? How are we going to get home?"

"I don't know, Dawn," said Russell, yawning again. "I don't even know how to get this shirt clean. And at this point, I'm too tired to care."

"And I need something to relax me," said Bob, thrumming softly on the drum.

"Be careful, Bob! What if somebody hears you?"

"What if somebody does?" smiled Bob. "Gilligan can play the drums. He's a real hep cat."

"Oh yeah," said Dawn. "That's right. I forgot."

"One of the few things Gilligan and Maynard G. Krebs had in common," quipped Russell.

Bob closed his eyes, stretching like a cat and continuing the _thrub-thrub_ of his fingers. "That and stunning good looks. And a severe allergy to _wooork!_"

They listened to the gentle rhythm of the drum for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. At last Bob's thrumming softened and his eyes opened. "But seriously, guys…how long can we keep on fooling these people? How long can I go on convincing the Skipper I'm really Gilligan? He wasn't laughing as much as the others at dinner. He kept looking at me real funny. I'm kinda worried."

"You've got to keep trying, Bobby," said Russell. "We've all got to keep trying. God knows it isn't easy, but we've got no choice."

"Then when's the next time we'll be able to meet and make our plans?" asked Dawn.

"I don't know, sweetie," said Bob. "We'll have to take whatever chance we can get. I have the feeling we're running out of time."

"Well…" Russell stood up and stretched. "I'll try another crack at the laundry biz in the morning. In the meantime, goodnight folks. Thank goodness I haven't got a roommate to act in front of."

"Goodnight, Russ." Dawn stood to go. "You staying up, Bobby?"

"No. I'll leave the drum here, though - one less thing to trip over in the hut in the night. Goodnight, Dawn."

The three of them heaped dirt on the fire until it went out, then turned and trudged wearily to their huts.


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's note: Hi, everyone! Just wanted to let you know I've changed my profile to accept anonymous reviews. I'm delighted to see that so many Gilligan fans from all over the world are enjoying these stories, and I'd love to hear from you! And thanks to you who've already reviewed; you're an inspiration!_

Bob wasn't surprised Gilligan tripped over things, especially at night. Without the studio lighting the crew's hut was a shadowy cavern, relieved only by dim moonlight and the tiny, fitful flare thrown by the candle on the table. Still, even after Bob had blown the candle out he was still able to climb into his hammock with the ease of long practice and avoid triggering the Skipper's attention. Once there he lay nervously, hoping that, as on the night before, the old sea-dog would be too tired to chat. Bob dreaded the night-time chats more than anything, where he might slip up and say something un-Gilligan.

At first things were promising. The Skipper's trademark snoring had the bamboo hammock poles jiggling slightly with their force. Then the snoring suddenly stopped. Bob held his breath.

"Gilligan? Are you awake?"

Bob flinched and tried to fake his own snoring.

"Oh come on, Gilligan. I know you can't fall asleep that fast. I want to talk to you."

Bob tried to sound sleepy and gave a big yawn. "Couldn't we talk in the morning, Skipper? I'm kinda tired."

"It'll just take a few minutes, little buddy."

"Oh…okay." The actor's voice took on a nonchalant air. "What'd you want to talk about, Skipper?"

"About our days together in the navy."

_Oh, no_. Bob tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. "That old stuff? Gee, Skipper, isn't it kinda late to be bringing that up? That was a long time ago. There's lots of stuff that's happened on the island since then."

There was a quiet persistence in the Skipper's voice that set Bob's nerves on edge. "Yes, but it's important to me, Gilligan. I'd think those days were important to you too. After all, that's where we met."

"I know that, Skipper." Bob suddenly remembered a line from the pilot episode and lunged at it like a drowning man. "That's where I pulled you out of the way of that depth charge! I saved your life!"

"That you did, little buddy. It was one of the bravest things I ever saw anybody do."

"I guess it was kind of brave, wasn't it?"

"It sure was. You should have gotten a medal for it."

Bob smiled, impressed with his own improvisational skills. "Yeah. I guess I should have!"

Suddenly the bamboo poles moved again, but this time they jolted as at a violent movement. In a moment the Skipper loomed over the upper hammock. "_What did you say?_"

Bob shrank back, alarmed. "I...I...Skipper, what's the matter?"

"Answer me! What did you just say about a medal?"

"I just said I should have gotten one!"

"You _did_ get one. Or should I say, _Gilligan_ did!" With the speed of a striking cobra the big man reached out and grabbed the front of Bob's shirt. The next thing the slender actor knew, he was being dragged bodily from the hammock and thrust aloft until his feet dangled helplessly above the ground. His hands plucked uselessly at arms like steel bands. "Skipper!" he gasped. He tipped his head forward to look down at his captor, and gulped.

Bob had never seen this look on Alan's face, not even when a smart-aleck director had tricked them into flailing around in the freezing lagoon when the cameras weren't rolling. The Skipper's eyes blazed with fury, borne out by the fierce grip of his powerful hands. But for all their strength those hands were shaking, and Bob could see the fear behind the wrath in those blue eyes.

"You slimy sea-snake! What have you done with my little buddy?"

"N-nothing, Skipper, I swear—"

The grip tightened. "So you thought you could fool me, eh? Me, that's been his big buddy for years? You thought I wouldn't see how you fouled up in a hundred ways since you walked into camp last night? Listen, mister Russian Spy or whoever you are, if you don't tell me where he is right now, they'll be picking you up off this floor with a shovel!"

"I'm not a spy!" Bob gasped. _Lord,_ he thought. _He's strong enough to do me some serious damage, and scared enough_. "Skipper, Gilligan's not hurt! He's fine! Honest!"

"Then where is he?"

Bob searched frantically for an answer, but all he could think of was the truth. "In Los Angeles!"

_"What?"_

"At the CBS studios at 4024 Radford Avenue!" yelled Bob in a delirium of fear.

The Skipper gave him a shake that rattled his teeth. "Cut the bilge and start making some sense, Mister! I'm serious!"

Bob's brain started flipping through the episodes at breakneck speed. "I know you are! You braved a typhoon for him! You wouldn't stay in the cave without him!"

"What?" The Skipper stared. "So you aren't a spy, huh? How long have you been watching us?"

"All America's been watching you! Skipper, I swear it by Pop's ring! The one you tried to give him but he couldn't pull it off your finger! Just put me down and I can explain everything!"

A bit, just a little bit of the fear in the Skipper's eyes faded into confusion. Slowly he lowered Gilligan's look-alike, but kept a firm grip on his shirt. Bob sighed gratefully as his feet hit the dirt floor and he could stand up straight. "Skipper, I swear to you, I'm the last person that would ever wish Gilligan any harm. This was all an accident! We never meant to switch places with Gilligan or the Professor or Mary Ann!"

"What? You mean that the man and woman you walked into camp with yesterday aren't - you mean - you're all phonies?" For a moment the fear returned and the hand clenched Bob's shirt again. "Good Lord! How are the Professor and Mary Ann mixed up in this? Are you holding them with Gilligan? "

Bob shook his head desperately. "Nobody's holding them. They're free, but they're stuck in our place, just like we're stuck in theirs! But maybe if you help us, we can get back, and get the real Gilligan, Mary Ann and Professor back too!"

The Skipper looked searchingly at the image of his little buddy and saw the same honesty as in Gilligan's eyes. At last he released the smaller man's shirt and simply gripped him by the arm. "I can't believe I'm doing this, but I've seen a lot of crazy things on this island. All right, Mister-whoever-you-are. We're going to go see your 'Professor and Mary Ann,' and the three of you better do some fast talking."


	12. Chapter 12

The Skipper's voice, like the scene, was quiet and dark. "Now hear this, the three of you: I'm the Skipper around here, and I'm responsible for these people. If anything's happened to Gilligan or the Professor or Mary Ann, you'll be mighty sorry. Now I want to know who you are, what you're doing here, and what's happened to my friends. Your pal here'll tell you that I'm not the nicest guy around when I'm angry. So don't make me angry. Let's have some answers."

Bob pulled at the collar of his shirt. "He's not kidding, guys. No funny stuff. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

Russell and Dawn looked at one another over the little table in the Professor's hut before turning back to face the Skipper. The glow from the Skipper's oil lamp shone in Dawn's nervous eyes, but Russell sat up straight, his expression calm. "All right then, Skipper. Here's the truth. I'm not the Professor. My name's Russell Tomson, and I'm a veteran, just like you. I was wounded in action serving the United States in the same war you served in."

Caught by surprise, the Skipper frowned. "You? That's impossible. You're not old enough!"

"I wasn't very old. Just eighteen. I was shot down over the Philippines in March of '45 and rescued by a PBY."

The Skipper rested his chin on his hand, eyes fixed on the actor. "I served on one of those once. We rescued a lot of pilots. Brave boys."

"Uncle Sam seemed to think so. I was awarded the Purple Heart, the Air Medal with Oak Leaf cluster, the Asiatic-Pacific Theatre of War Ribbon with four battle stars and the Philippine Liberation Medal."

As Russell calmly recited the list, the Skipper's jaw hit the table. So did Bob and Dawn's. "Wow, Russ! That's incredible!"

Bob shook his head. "I don't know if I've said this before, but I'm proud to know you!"

The Skipper was dumbfounded. "You couldn't invent a history like that. There'd be records! You've got to be telling the truth!"

Russell smiled at his fellow veteran. "You PBY crews were the heroes. You saved a lot of good men. That's the truth."

The Skipper smiled back in spite of himself, then scratched his forehead. "Well, if I wasn't sure you weren't enemy spies, I am now. But that still doesn't explain what you're doing here, or where my friends are."

Bob sighed. "They're in Los Angeles, Skipper. Like I told you."

"Los Angeles. And how did they get there?" The Skipper made an elaborate gesture with his fingers. "Did you just wave a magic wand and say 'abra cadabra'?"

"Not a wand, Skipper. These." Removing his amulet from around his neck, Russell passed it over. It gleamed in the lamplight as the Skipper stared at it, and Bob and Dawn pulled theirs out for good measure.

The Skipper turned the golden pendant over in the light and glanced at its two mates. "Hey, wait a minute. Isn't this one of the amulets the Professor was talking about?"

"That's right," said Russell. "Remember when you asked me about it the other night? We think the Professor was right: these amulets really do take you to some other place. That's how we got here, and how your friends ended up in L.A."

"These amulets were made by the Mayans of ancient Mexico," Bob explained. "Ever heard of those people?"

Frowning, the Skipper scratched his head again. "Well, the Professor talked about them. And I was in Mexico once…went to a big museum in Mexico City. They had all these carvings from the Mayan pyramids, things that looked like spaceships and spacemen…" He suddenly looked up, eyes wide. "No, you can't be serious! The Professor said it was science, I thought it was comic book stuff…but you're telling me it actually _worked_? These things took my friends right off the island and brought you here?"

"That's right," said Bob.

"I don't believe it!" But the Skipper looked as though he was starting to. His face suddenly brightened with realization. "Hey, wait a minute! If that's true…if Gilligan and the others are really in Los Angeles, that's great! They can tell the authorities all about us! We're saved!"

Bob shook his head sadly. "'Fraid not, Skipper. Your friends are in _our_ Los Angeles, not yours. There won't be any island for the authorities to find. You see, we aren't from your world at all. We're from a parallel universe."

The Skipper pushed his blond hair back under his captain's hat and blinked like someone had slipped him a Mickey Finn. "Come again?"

Bob paused and breathed heavily as he plunged into the deep end of insanity. "You thought that last stuff was hard to believe, Skipper? Try this on for size. We're from another world, another dimension. Kind of like a mirror image of this one, only some things are a little different."

The Skipper's incredulous eyes roamed 'round the table. "Good grief. I think I was happier with the Russian spy idea! All right. One big leap at a time, folks. If the Professor said those amulets could move people through space, I'll buy it. But now you say you come from some 'other world.' Why in the name of good sense should I believe that? The only world I believe in is the one I can see."

"You're the one who believes in the ancient gods and their powers, aren't you, Skipper?" Dawn reminded him. "Isn't that a sort of 'other world' that you can't see?"

The Skipper didn't quite know how to answer that. "Uh…well, I suppose."

"And aren't you curious about why we look so much like your friends, and how we know so many things that have happened on the island?" asked Bob. "How I knew about the typhoon, and Pop's ring, and Gilligan's hurting his nose, and the keptibora berries, and—"

"Okay, mister. I get your point. So how did you know?"

"They were in the script," said Bob.

"Script of what?"

"The smash hit at CBS for the past three seasons. _Gilligan's Island_."

"_Gilligan's Island?_" There was a long pause. "Are you talking about _this _island?"

"Yeah – except that it's not _this_ island. This island doesn't exist in our world, and our show doesn't exist in yours."

"That's right!" Dawn leapt in before the Skipper even had a chance to blink. "In our world, a man named Sherwood Schlitz wrote a TV show called _Gilligan's Island_, and we're the actors. My name is Dawn Bells; I play Mary Ann. Russell here and Bob – Bob Colorado – are my castmates. You can probably guess who they play."

Now Jonas Grumby's expression mirrored Alice's when she'd first fallen down the rabbit hole. "Okay…let me get this straight. Mr….uh…"

"Bob. No 'mister,' please, Skipper. I'd feel like you were asking for my autograph."

Uh…okay, _Bob_." The Skipper faltered on the name, unnerved at giving such an unfamiliar label to such a familiar face. "So you're from some 'other world'. And now you're trying to tell me that Gilligan, the passengers, myself, even the island…we're not _real_? We're a TV show?"

Dawn leaned forward, her hand on his arm. "No, of course not, Skipper! You're all real. The island's real. We've sure found that out since we've been here! It's only in our world that Gilligan's Island is imaginary."

"But even so…you're saying that some writer fellow – Sherlock or Sherwood or whatever his name is – he dreamed us up? That's why we're even here at all?"

Bob held up his hands. "Whoa. We're not saying that, Skipper. We don't know how your world and ours are related. Maybe Sherwood dreamed you up because you were already here. I'm no philosophy major, but I don't think the fact that there's a TV show about you makes you any less real."

"Oh…okay. Well, at least that's a relief." The Skipper sighed and passed a hand over his brow, trying to take it all in. "So in _your_ world, this is a show. And it's called _Gilligan's Island._" The Skipper suddenly frowned. "Wait a minute. Why's it called _Gilligan's Island_? Why isn't it named after all of us?"

"That'd make a mighty long title," Bob observed dryly.

"Well, but why not…_Grumby's Island_? I mean, after all, I am the Skipper. I'm the one that made sure the Minnow didn't sink."

Bob gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Let's face it, Skipper. Who do things usually revolve around here? Who gets into all kinds of trouble – and saves the day just as often?"

"Well…hmmm. You've got a point there. What kind of show is it, anyway? Adventure? Drama?"

"Neither one. It's a situation comedy," explained Dawn.

"A comedy?!" The Skipper was flabbergasted. "What's so funny about being stranded on a deserted island? Why didn't they make it a serious show and call it _Lost_ or something?"

"Nah," said Bob. "It'd never sell."

"Besides, Gilligan's Island is a hoot," Russell insisted. "You and Bob – I mean Alan and Bob do all kinds of hilarious physical comedy."

"Alan?"

"The guy who plays you, Skipper," said Bob, smiling. "A big blond teddy bear. And a good friend."

"Oh." The Skipper looked at Bob searchingly, and then raised an eyebrow. "Oh – that's who you were calling. Not the gorilla. I get it now."

Dawn put her hand on the Skipper's arm again. "You'd like Alan, Skipper. He was the hardest person to cast because they had to find someone who was really sweet. The audience had to believe he loved Gilligan, no matter how much he yelled at him. Alan was perfect."

"Why…ep…well, that's--" Now the Skipper was starting to blush. "Oh, come on, less of the old oil, both of you!"

"And Alan gets to do a lot of yelling, because every week Gilligan ruins the rescue," added Russell.

Bob drew himself up. "Hang on a minute. That's not fair. Not every week!"

"Just about."

"Half of the episodes aren't even about rescues!"

"Well, Gilligan ruins the ones they do try."

"Uh, guys—" Dawn began.

"But that's just circumstances! It's not his fault. He gets blamed all the time, but there's only about six of them that were really his fault."

Russell snorted. "Six of them! Come on, there's a lot more than six! How about the rabbit's foot in the robot?"

"Guys, this isn't—"

"Okay, I'll give you that one. But drinking the glow-in-the-dark formula wasn't. That was _your_ fault. You set it on the table next to him. You even said, 'keep eating'!"

"The Professor said it, not me."

"Fine, then, it was the Professor's fault. And it was also the Professor's fault that they thought the island was sinking. Did the Professor put a label on that silly stick in the water, hmmm? And what about—"

"_Guys!_" The little brown hand thumped the table so hard the lantern jumped. Dawn flashed the Skipper his own trademark look of exasperation before she turned back to her friends. "Where do you think we are, some kind of fan convention? This is serious!"

The Skipper blinked at her first statement, but agreed with her second. "She's right. You bet it's serious. How are we going to get my little buddy and the others back? How do you work these things? What's the secret?"

Three blank looks and three pairs of shrugged shoulders met the question. "We don't know, Skipper," sighed Russell. "We tried 'recreating the scene' yesterday, so to speak, but it didn't work. Somehow we didn't get it right."

"Well, what exactly did you do? Maybe I can help."

"I don't know, Skipper," said Bob. "There's a lot of stuff we just don't have here. We don't have the film crew, for example, or the cameras. Then again, we don't even know whether they had anything to do with it."

"Bob was underwater in the lagoon when it happened," Russell explained. "We were shooting a scene with Dawn and me on shore, when suddenly a spotlight blew up. That's one of those big lights we use to light a set. Then there was a blinding flash of light and an earthquake, and here we were."

"Too bad we haven't got a big spotlight," muttered Bob. "But we haven't even got a way to power it, even if we had one."

"We have got the pedal powered dynamo, but like you said, we've got no spotlight." The Skipper sighed, rubbing his eyes. "What I wouldn't give for a keg of rum right now."

"You wouldn't have a cigarette, would you?" asked Bob hopefully.

"Cigarette? But you don't—oh." The big sailor took one of Bob's hands and inspected the tips of his fingers, snorting. "I thought they looked like nicotine stains. For a minute there I thought I was going crazy. Sorry, but apparently your writer fellow decided this was a non-smoking island." He heaved another sigh. "Well, this is just dandy. My first mate and two of my passengers are stuck in some other world and can't get back, and the ones I still have are in danger of being attacked by headhunters! I wish I was back on that PBY! Life was kinda simple back then!"

All four of them rested their chins on their hands in glum despair as the lamplight flickered and fizzed. At last the Skipper reached over to trim the wick. "This darn lantern – wonder what Gilligan filled it with. With our luck it'll probably blow up in our faces."

After a moment Bob suddenly sat up, eyes alight with a gleam of their own. "Hey…maybe we don't need a spotlight. Maybe we just need a flash. A big, sudden flash of light, like an explosion! Maybe that's what did it!"

The others all looked at each other, then at him. "It's worth a try, Bobby," said Dawn. "At least that's one more element we could recreate."

"Yeah!" Bob turned to Russell. "That explosion you made this afternoon. How did you do it? What did you use?"

"I don't know; it was just some white powder in a halved gourd. Looked like flour."

The Skipper suddenly sat up too. "Hey, I know what that was. The flash powder from the magician's crate! We've still got some of it. The Professor keeps it for experiments, hoping we might be able to make some sort of signal from it."

"What's your idea, Bob?" asked Dawn.

He leaned forwards, spearing the table with his forefinger in his excitement. "We go back to the lagoon, the three of us, this time with the Skipper here. I'll go back into the water. Then the Skipper can touch off some of the flash powder – not enough to be dangerous, mind you," he hastened to add, "but just enough to create a flash of light. Maybe that would do it! And maybe…" he stared eagerly off into the shadows, as though visited by some strange vision.

"Maybe what, Mr. – uh- Bob?"

The Skipper started at the sharp, determined look in the eyes that were so much like his first mate's. "Skipper, remember when Gilligan ran away and you tried to scare him back to camp? You and the other men dressed up as monsters?"

"Erp…yes." The Skipper shifted uncomfortably; it was not a time he liked to remember. "What about it?"

"Remember when he confronted the three of you to save the women? He scared _you_ by threatening to blow up the flash powder!" Bob fixed the other two with a triumphant grin. "Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone: get ourselves home and scare the headhunters away with a flash powder explosion!"

The Skipper blinked at him. "Wow. You sure are one smart guy."

"He's the college boy," said Russell, smiling.

"You are?" The Skipper's eyebrows took a leap into his hair.

Bob waved his incredulity aside. "Oh, never mind that now. I'll bet it'll work!"

"It might just, Bobby," said Dawn, "except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"How do we get the headhunters to the lagoon? I'm not exactly keen on the idea of just wandering around in the jungle trying to attract their attention. That's a good way to get a lot shorter than I already am."

Dawn's observation sent the quartet into another dejected round of chin-on-hand leaning. After awhile, frustrated and nicotine deprived, Bob began to drum his nimble fingers on the table.

Russell snorted, not unkindly. "Why don't you go get your drum, Bobby? It's not like any of us are going to bed any time soon. Maybe it'll help us think."

A half-smile crooked Bob's mouth. "That's a good idea. I left it by the campfire."

But before he could get up, the Skipper caught his arm. "I noticed you'd taken one of Gilligan's drums outside. You play too?"

"Sure, I do. Jazz, mostly. Why?"

"I wonder…my little buddy's no good with snare drums, but he's a mean man on the bongos. Those tall wooden drums too. If you could do what he did…"

"If I could do what, Skipper?" Their hands were all on the table now.

"Summon the natives with the drums, the way Gilligan did that time. We could bring the drums to the lagoon, you could play, and when the headhunters came out, boom! You'd go home, I'd get my people back, and the headhunters would go screaming back to their own islands!"

The three actors sat up, staring at one another in apprehension. "Sounds like a great script for an episode of _Gilligan's Island_," said Dawn. "But now that I think about it…to really try it? With real headhunters, I mean! I mean…what if it didn't work? What would we do?"

Bob was starting to get cold feet as well. "Yeah – what if they didn't like my music? What if they're even meaner than our critics? Talk about savages. They'd really take our heads off!"

The Skipper held up his large hands, trying to calm them. "I've been thinking about this. We could do this right at daybreak, so we'll have light to see by, but they'll be sleepy and off-balance. They usually travel in threes, these native hunting parties. We've got the machete, and I can make a couple of clubs. We've never tried fighting them before. Maybe they'd run if they were met with even numbers! And we'd have the element of surprise. Even if the flash didn't send you back, it would still throw them off balance. We could beat them good enough to make them think twice about attacking us!"

At the actors' continued look of dismay, the Skipper held out his hands in appeal. "At least it gives me a fighting chance to protect my friends. Ginger, Mr. and Mrs. Howell – they wouldn't be any good in a fight. And sooner or later these natives are going to find us. Please, folks, you've got to help us. We can't just turn up the lights and walk off of a set. We live here. This is what we deal with, every day. If that show ever made you care about us, help us out, huh?"

There was only a moment's hesitation. Then, in a burst of silent smiles the visitors piled their outstretched hands on top of one another's, and the grateful Skipper added his on the top. "Aw, thanks. Thanks, folks."

Bob shook his head, wondering when he would wake up. "Well, at least this time no one's going to be able to say, 'Gilligan, you did it again'!"


	13. Chapter 13

Earlier, in the crew's hut, Bob had felt nervous. Now he simply felt awkward, and knew he wasn't the only one.

The Skipper sat down on a chair, tugging at a shoe and keeping his face turned away as though unable to look at the man who wasn't Gilligan. "Uh…would you like the top bunk?"

"Sure, Skipper. It's the one I'm used to."

"Oh…er-right." For a few moments there was no sound save the slightest creaking of the bamboo poles and soft murmur of the jungle crickets as the two men climbed into their respective hammocks. Then the Skipper spoke again. "Uh…Mr. - I mean, Bob?"

"Yeah, Skipper?"

"I'm sorry about – well, you know, how I got kinda rough with you before. It's just that when I think of my little buddy being in trouble, it really gives me the willies. I hope I didn't hurt you."

Bob's smile was hidden in the shadows. "I'm fine, Skipper. And try not to worry, okay? Gilligan's fine too. After all, he's not lost in the jungle somewhere; he's in Los Angeles! How much trouble can he get into?"

The pregnant pause that followed made Bob swallow a laugh. "Okay, forget that I said that. But don't forget that he's not alone. The Professor and Mary Ann are with him, and my friends back there are pretty nice folks. They'll look out for him."

The sigh from the lower berth spoke volumes. "I know. But it should be _me_ looking out for him. He depends on me for that, you know? I've looked out for him and taken care of him for years now. And now I'm not there with him."

The vulnerability in that voice moved the young actor. He slid his hands beneath his head, trying to think of how to distract the Skipper from all his worries. This was also, he realized, a chance to learn more about the character he had inhabited for so long. "Tell me about when you first met him, Skipper. He must have been awfully young."

The voice below mellowed at once with deep fondness. "He sure was. Straight out of high school. Boy, what a sight. Had on the skinniest uniform the quarter master could find and it was still too big for him. And talk about a magnet for disaster! He could make a weapon of mass destruction out of a mop and a pail, let alone a gun turret. I didn't give him a week." The Skipper paused for effect. "Three months later he was decorated for bravery."

The effect was explosive as Bob gasped in astonishment. "Wow! He was? _Gilligan?_" Then suddenly his previous dramatic exchange with the Skipper came back to him and he nodded. "Oh…oh, _that _medal! The one he got for saving you from the depth charge!"

"That's right." Bob could sense there was a smile below him. "I knew he couldn't forget that."

"What medal was it, exactly?"

"The Navy Medal of Honour." The voice glowed with pride. "For conspicuous gallantry above and beyond the call of duty."

"Wow! That's incredible! That's fantastic! I wished I'd been there! I mean—" Bob corrected himself. "I wish we could have filmed it. What exactly happened, Skipper? Tell me."

"Well, we were out on our destroyer a few miles off Molokoi in really rough seas. They were pitching so bad that a depth charge broke loose. Do you know what that is?"

"I'm not sure. It's some kind of bomb, isn't it?"

"That's right: a huge, barrel-shaped bomb that we drop down onto enemy submarines. They're stored on deck. Well, this one came loose from its moorings and went rolling all over the place. Whenever that happens, the crew's in awful danger; those things are so big they can kill a man. But that day the sea was so rough that I never heard the thing coming. I never heard Gilligan calling to me either; probably wouldn't have listened even if I had. But he didn't give up. The next thing I knew this crazy little recruit had downed me in a flying tackle, and we were lying there sprawled on the deck as the depth charge came crashing over the spot where I'd just been standing. That thing would have broken every bone in my body and flattened him. He saved my life."

"And that's how two of you became friends?"

"You bet. He looked out for me, and so I started looking out for him. He's the kind of guy that gets picked on in an outfit like that, you know, what with being little and sweet-natured and clumsy and not always too quick on the uptake. Of course, after that depth charge business, the men had a lot more respect for him. And as for those who didn't, well, as soon as word got 'round that he was my little buddy, nobody picked on him anymore. Nobody that knew what was good for them, anyway."

"I believe it," said Bob, feeling his throat. "I don't envy the man that bullied Gilligan while you were around."

A gruff snort of laughter echoed his feeling, but it trailed off quickly. "But sometimes I get the feeling I'm the biggest bully of them all," the Skipper said, almost too softly to hear.

"What? What do you mean?"

"You said it yourself. Gilligan ran away and we had to scare him into coming back to camp…because he was so hurt. Hurt by all those mean things I went and said about him. Hurt because I didn't stand up for him, like a buddy's supposed to do."

"Skipper…"

"And I'll never forget him standing there with the fire and the flash powder, ready to die to protect the women. He should have got another medal right there and then."

Bob fell silent, realizing that the Skipper needed this confession, and perhaps the best confessor was the stranger who wore Gilligan's face. He let the Skipper go on.

"And you were right: it wasn't his fault we thought the island was sinking. How was he supposed to know what that stick was? All he'd done was gone out to get us some lobsters for our dinner. And drinking that phosphorescent formula wasn't his fault either. My gosh, what if it had been poisonous? He could have died! Why wasn't I there? Why wasn't I looking out for him? What kind of a buddy am I, anyway!?"

Things had gone far enough. "Skipper!"

"What?"

"Gilligan's going to be all right, I promise you. You can tell him all this yourself – when he comes back. I know he will."

"How do you know?"

Bob smiled. "Because we've been picked up for a fourth season. He's the star. He has to come back."

This made the Skipper break into chuckles of relief. "Oh. Oh yeah, I forgot. The TV show. Wow. Weirdest thing I've ever heard. Say…as long as you're here, Mr. – uh – Bob, do you know when we'll get rescued?"

"Well, I know Sherwood plans to do a rescue episode when we finally get cancelled, though with the ratings as high as they are, it's not going to happen any time soon. The only thing that could sabotage a rescue is if they suddenly cancelled us right after we wrap this season, and that's not going to happen. We've won our spot for three years running. 'Fraid you might be here a little while longer, Skipper."

"Oh. Oh, well. It's not a bad little island, I guess. And the company's okay. I do miss my T-bone steaks, though. We've got lots of strange animals on the island, but no cows."

"You've got animals, all right," murmured Bob, remembering his earlier adventure.

The Skipper suddenly gulped and choked. "Oh, my gosh…you didn't know, did you?" He sounded suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh.

'Didn't know what?" said Bob, though he'd already guessed.

"That the gorilla was friendly. You thought he was really chasing you! That's why you—ha, ha, ha!" The Skipper's chortle ballooned into his famous booming laugh. He roared and hooted until Bob thought the whole camp must be awake. "I never saw anyone run so fast! You flew around like a rabbit with a bobcat on its tail! Ha, ha, ha!"

Bob lay drumming his fingers in mortification until finally the Skipper poked him in the side and he yelped, startled. "Oh, Bob, I gotta tell you. That was the funniest thing I ever saw!"

At last Bob couldn't help joining in. Combined laughter filled the darkness of the little hut, as it had so many times before. Gradually it died down into gasps and wheezes, until finally the Skipper took a deep yawn. "Oh, I should have known right there and then you weren't him. Once Gilligan's won over an animal or a human, they're his for life." The sigh was back. "He's one of a kind, my little buddy."

Bob's gaze wandered to the window and the gauzy moon. "You ever read Rudyard Kipling, Skipper?"

"Hmm?" The change in subject caught the Skipper off guard. "Uh…don't think so. English writer, wasn't he?"

"That's right. Wrote _The Jungle Book_, and a few other things."

"Oh. Why'd you bring him up?"

"There's a poem of his I think you'd like. It's called _The Thousandth Man_."

"You know it?"

"Mmmm hmmm." Bob began to recite softly:

_One man in a thousand, Solomon says,  
Will stick more close than a brother.  
And it's worth while seeking him half your days  
If you find him before the other.  
Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend  
On what the world sees in you,  
But the Thousandth man will stand your friend  
With the whole round world agin you._

_'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show  
Will settle the finding for 'ee.  
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go  
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.  
But if he finds you and you find him,  
The rest of the world don't matter;  
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim  
With you in any water._

The crickets whispered from the rustling depths of the jungle beyond. And just above them came a human whisper. "Oh, gosh, I miss him…"

Bob leaned over the side of the hammock, and the moonlight lit the white cap that framed his dark hair and pale face. He saw the Skipper looking up at him as a man dying in the desert looks at a mirage.

"Whatever universe you're in, Skipper, he'll be with you. I promise."

The answering smile wavered, but held. "Thanks. Thanks, Bob. Well, good night."

"Good night, Skipper."


	14. Chapter 14

Daybreak saw the foursome already at the lagoon, watching the disappearance of the last vestiges of night. The sky that crowned the risen half-disk of the sun was deep amber, blanketed by mauve clouds above and the still, pale purple waters below. A ribbon of red flame shone upon the water where the red sunlight caressed it. Around the lagoon the stately palms kept watch like sentinels, only the very fringes of their fronds moving.

Russell was the first to break the silence. "You're named after a pretty thing, Dawn."

"Yeah," she said softly, drinking in the scene. "I sort of don't want to leave."

"I know what you mean," said Bob. "I'm nervous as heck, but I can't get over this place! Is it always like this, Skipper?"

"That depends, Bob. It can change with the seasons, the weather. Gilligan notices it the most. He says he's seen a hundred dawns and sunsets here, all of 'em different – and all beautiful." The Skipper looked longingly at the flaming sky. "Did I mention that I miss him? I mean…" he paused awkwardly and ran his hand through his graying blond hair. "No offense. You're real nice folks and all, but I'd like my passengers back. And my crew. Especially my crew."

Dawn nodded. "We understand."

The Skipper took a deep breath. "And now we'd better get serious. This mission has to have perfect coordination. We'll only have one shot at scaring off those natives with this powder. The rest we've got to keep in reserve to send you back. Dawn, you better stick close to Russell and me."

The petite brunette nodded again, shuddering, as she crept closer to Russell. "I intend to stick to the two of you like glue, Skipper!"

The Skipper lit the oil-soaked end of a stick with a match and picked up the half-gourd of powder. Another lay at his feet. "Bob, when those natives appear you get ready to move. You run straight out into that water and maybe we can kill two birds with one stone." At Bob's dire look the Skipper bit his tongue. "Oops…sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"Be careful, Bob!" cried Dawn.

"Don't take any chances, Bobby!" urged Russell, testing the weight of his crude club.

"Don't worry, I won't."

"'Cause you're the star of the show. If we lose you, the ratings'll go through the floor!"

"Thanks a lot, Russ." Bob rolled his eyes but knew that his friend's concern was absolutely genuine. With unsteady steps he went to the tall drums they had set up on the sand about twenty feet away. It felt like twenty miles. At last he reached them and seated himself on the high bamboo stool they'd brought. Taking a deep breath, the actor looked around nervously and cracked his knuckles. "Here goes, daddy-o."

Closing his eyes, Bob began to beat out a gentle, swinging jazz rhythm. As his fingers fluttered and danced above the taut hide he began to rock slowly back and forth, lost in the music. Hypnotized, his mind drifted back to the coffee bars of L.A. and the inspiration for Maynard G. Krebs, to the beatniks and the heady beat of the ever-present bongos. Faster and faster, harder and harder went his hands, quickening the throb and pulse of the drums, like the wild heartbeat of the jungle itself.

And the jungle answered, a lot sooner and louder than Bob expected.

Leaping from the jungle in a chorus of bloodcurdling shrieks, three, six, no – _ten_ ferocious tattooed warriors burst onto the scene, brandishing spears and machetes. This close up it was horribly clear that their bizarre face markings were no make-up, the slivers of bone bristling in their wild hair and impaling their noses no product of a Hollywood wardrobe department. These were the real thing: cannibal headhunters.

Russell swung his club in a protective arc as Dawn screamed and hid behind him. Bob screamed nearly as loudly and fell backwards off his stool as one of the headhunters aimed a vicious machete blow at him. The blow split the stool in half. Bob scrambled backwards, eyeing the skulls that swung at the waist of the savage's grass skirt. They weren't props…and neither was the machete.

The speed of the savages' attack, coupled with their much greater numbers had stunned their quarry. "Skipper! Light the powder! Hurry!" cried Dawn.

The Skipper was way ahead of her. The flame was inches from the gourd when a native spear came shooting at him and knocked the gourd from his hand. He yelped, snatching back his hand and coughing as the white cloud of powder drifted around him. Dawn and Russell leaped back as the spear thudded into a tree and stuck there, quivering.

Bob hadn't seen this. "Skipper! What are you waiting for?" he shouted, desperately hiding behind the tall drums, edging one way and the next as the savage on the other side tried to fake him out. "When these guys yell _cut_ they mean it!"

Dawn snatched up the other gourd. "Skipper! You'll have to use this one!"

"But Bob can't get to the water! If we set the powder off now, we may never be able to make the switch!"

"Skipper, we've got to save Bob's life! Not to mention our own!"

By now eight of the fierce savages had fanned out to surround the Skipper, Dawn and Russell, their snarls showing off teeth that had been filed to a point. The trio heard Bob yelp as a native that had snuck up behind him pinioned him by the arms. His original pursuer approached with a wicked grin and a wickedly gleaming blade.

The Skipper looked at his first mate's stricken look-alike and swallowed hard. "I know what my little buddy would do. Give me the gourd, Dawn!" As the circle of natives around them tightened he held the still burning stick threateningly over the last of the powder. "All right, fellas! Ready or not, here it comes!"

And it did come – with a roar almost as loud as the one made by the ten natives combined.

The Skipper stood frozen, the hand with the torch still poised above the powder. Dawn and Russell were frozen too. In fact, they nearly forgot the natives altogether at the sight of the latecomer that had suddenly crashed the party.

"Arnold!" Bob gasped, and nearly fainted in relief.

It was indeed the gigantic silverback gorilla. The monstrous beast raced around, snorting and gibbering, to finally rise on its muscular hind legs and beat its barrel of a chest with a mighty roar.

The natives nearly fainted too – but not in relief. Bob actually felt a little sorry for them. After all, Arnold was scary-looking enough, even to someone who knew what a gorilla was. But judging by the natives' expressions, it was all too apparent that _Gilligan's Island's _crazy writers had never put any African mountain gorillas onto _other_ South Pacific islands. The headhunters had no idea what Arnold was. Horrified, they stared at Arnold as though he were Kona the god of evil risen in all his glory. Then they shrieked, and in a flurry of grass skirts all ten leaped in the air and ran for their lives.

Arnold was delighted. Like a hound in a flock of chickens he scattered the natives this way and that, spinning and charging and lunging at anything that moved. The headhunters fell over each other trying to get out of his path. At one point the ape's enormous hand reached out and snagged the fringe of a grass skirt. One mighty tug and Dawn had to hide her eyes. The native shrieked and dashed into the bushes, grabbing frantically at some large leaves.

Then Arnold whirled on the two natives that had been menacing Bob. That unfortunate pair had already let their captive go and were backing up, whimpering. Arnold reared his towering height again and pounded out an ear-splitting tattoo on his chest.

"My hero!" cried Bob.

"_AAAAAH!_" cried the two brave warriors.

Arnold dropped to the ground and charged. He hared the two screaming savages 'round and 'round the drums until one, the bolder (or maybe the crazier) of the two stopped and brandished his spear with a shaking arm. Arnold caught hold of the spear and bit down on the middle of the shaft like a dog with a favourite bone. One gnash of his jaws and the spear snapped in two.

That did it. The two natives scampered past Bob, nearly knocking him over in their mad dash for the lagoon.

Meanwhile, their more enterprising comrades were dragging their outriggers from the bushes in a frenzied tug-of-war. Some were already paddling desperately across the lagoon at a speed that would put the best Olympic crew to shame. One crew that kept casting terrified glances backwards forgot to look where they were going, slammed prow first into the opposite shore and neatly toppled over. Another group's boat was still on the beach, snagged in the creepers. Arnold raced up to the frantically struggling crew and hoisted the canoe, dangling natives and all, into the air. Then he launched it like a rocket ten feet into the water. When the great splash had subsided the clinging, kicking natives climbed aboard and paddled for all they were worth.

Somehow, though, they must have ruptured their hull while trying to free the canoe from the bushes for as they paddled the outrigger slowly began to sink. The water soon lapped at the gunwales but the natives never broke the rhythm of their hectic stroke. Even as the boat disappeared beneath the surface the still-seated natives still paddled until they were in up to their necks and had to swim. They splashed after their fellows, kicking up a mighty wake, until they all 'rounded the bend at the end of the lagoon and disappeared from sight.

Arnold stood motionless on the shore, watching as the lavender-purple dawn waters of the lagoon gradually calmed. When the last traces of the invaders had gone he turned and lumbered on his knuckles over to where Bob was leaning, shaky with relief, against the drums. Bob smiled weakly at his simian saviour. "Thanks, Arnold," he murmured. "And thanks to Gilligan, for teaching you tag!"

The hulking primate snorted softly. Before Bob could react, a pair of colossal hairy arms wrapped around him and he was lifted off his feet in a gentle but very inescapable embrace. Then just as gently the great ape set him on the ground, drubbed the tops of the drums with his massive hands, and shuffled off into the jungle.

For a moment the Skipper, Russell and Dawn stood there as if pole-axed, goggling at Bob as he slumped against the drums. Then, as though on cue, the threesome burst into roars of laughter.

"Say, Bob, Gilligan's gonna be thrilled. He's been trying to teach Arnold how to play the drums for ages now!" Nearly doubled over with laughter, the Skipper was in danger of dropping the gourd. "But he's still gotta work on shaking hands!"

Dawn and Russell hung onto each other, laughing so hard they were in pain. "Bobby, I think you've got a new fan!"

"Maybe we should tell Sherwood. What a great scene! That was hilarious!"

"Yeah! You just try it, Russ, and I'll tell him about the Professor's exploding experiments!"

This set Dawn, Russell and the Skipper off all over again. Bob staggered over to them, still panting from his exertions. "Skipper, this island's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here!"

"I'll second that," laughed Dawn, as even Bob joined in the merriment. "You folks are remarkable: all of you. You're a lot better at being castaways than we are!"

"Yeah!" Russell agreed. "It's been a privilege. I only wish we could have met all seven of you."

Dawn took the gourd from the Skipper to free his hand, and the Skipper grasped Russell's in a hearty shake. "It was nice to meet you, too, Russell. Safe trip back." Then the big man laughed as Dawn jumped into the curve of his free arm and gave him a kiss. "Aw, thanks, Dawn. You're every bit the sweetheart Mary Ann is. You take care now."

The two moved aside as Bob approached the Skipper. The old sea-dog shook his head in fond exasperation. "You can get yourself into as much trouble as Gilligan, that's for sure. Don't get into any more trouble on the way back."

Bob rolled his eyes and laughed. "I'll do my best! But I am glad we made it here; most of all because I got to meet you. You're one man in a thousand, Skipper." He smiled a quiet smile. "Say hi to him for me, will you?"

"I will, Bob," the Skipper promised. He looked at the others. "I'll say hi to everybody. From all of you."

Bob reached out and gripped the Skipper's arm firmly. "You seven take care of each other, all right? And don't give up."

"We won't. You've got my word on that. Bye, folks."

"Bye, Skipper."

With a deep breath and a last, undeniably fond look at the beautiful island, Bob fished the amulet out of his collar and looked at his cast-mates. "Well, here goes nothing!" He turned and splashed off into the water, diving when it got waist deep.

On the shore the Skipper took the gourd from Dawn. She and Russell got out their amulets and stood clutching each other by the arms, fingers crossed for luck. The Skipper lifted the torch. "Hang on tight now! Good luck!"

The flame sparked the white powder.

_Flash! Clap!_

Bob shot to the surface and shook the water from his eyes. When he looked around, he gave a whoop of joy that was echoed by Dawn's and Russell's.

Above was the slightly grey November sky, and the spotlights and cameras on the fringe of the lagoon were manned by a host of puzzled looking crew that were staring at one broken light. Dawn and Russell cheered and danced as a very unhappy Leslie Godwins looked on, tapping his riding crop against his booted leg.

"We did it! We made it!" yelled Bob, ignoring the chill as he splashed onto the shore and grabbed his cast-mates in a wet, soppy hug. "We're back!"

The euphoric trio turned to their fuming director. "Leslie! You won't believe what just happened to us!"

"I don't ruddy well believe what's just happened to me! Three days we've been trying to get this scene filmed, and now the light goes again and the three of you go mad! I've had enough. Tell Harmon we can't do this script: we'll have to go with Howard's twaddle about Gilligan turning invisible! Sam, that's a wrap for today! _Cut!_"

_Finis_


End file.
